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V. . ---k- 1 . y ?*S: 






A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD 


21 K'oocl 


By JAMES PAYN 

M 

AUTHOR OP 

‘‘the canon’s ward” “the heir op the ages” “by proxy 
“thicker than water” etc. 




5 





, ^ 


r 




NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 

1888 


T’a.9 

Tr 

£ 


Exchange 

ittora ry of supreme Council A.A *WBi 

Awe lOtlMO 


TO 

WALTER BESANT 
®l)i3 Book is iHebicatc^ 

BY. HIS FRIEND 

^ ^ JAMES PA YN 



9 


CONTENTS 


OHAP. PAGE 

PROLOGUE — AT THE ‘ ‘ INVENTORIES ” 7 

I. A DISUNITED FAMILY 15 

II. ON THE RAMPARTS ... 18 

III. “farewell” 24 

IV. ON BOARD 28 

V. THE PASSENGER 34 

VI. THE ACCUSATION 40 

VII. THE THIEF 47 

VIII. WITH HER MASK OFF 52 

IX. CAPTAIN HEAD TO THE RESCUE 57 

X. LAND 62 

XI. NUMBER TWO 69 

XII. PRESENTIMENTS 76 

XIII. THE GALE 82 

XIV. MR. BATES’s NEWS 86 

XV. THE WRECK 91 

XVI. LAND 98 

XVII. RESCUE BAY 102 

XVIII. THE captain’s SPEECH 106 

XIX. THE PLEBISCIT Ill 

XX. THE EXPLORATION .'. . . 116 

XXL VISITORS • ■ 122 

XXII. THE SONG 127 

XXIII. A VOLUNTARY EXIT 131 

XXIV. THE COPPER KETTLE 135 

XXV. ROYALTIES 139 

XXVI. MASTER CONOLLY’s NARRATIVE 146 


6 


CONTENTS 


OIIAP. PA OR 

XXVII. MASTER CONOLLT’s NARRATIVE CONTINUED 151 

XXVIII. THE SHARK 156 

XXIX. MR. BATES FINDS HIS MASTER 162 

XXX. LET US KILL THE NIGGER ! 167 

XXXI. THE EXAMINATION 171 

XXXII. WAS IT POSSIBLE? 176 

XXXIII. HALF-MAST HIGH 180 

XXXIV. THE BLOW-PIPE 185 

XXXV. IN HOSPITAL 189 

XXXVI. THE EXECUTION 195 

xxxvii. “yes” 200 

XXXVIII. FAMILY TIES 206 

XXXIX. ILL NEWS 211 

XL. THE EXPEDITION 217 

XLI. THE INVESTITURE 221 

XLII. THE DERELICT 225 

XLIII. DEPARTURE 230 

XLIV. HUMILIATIONS 234 

XLV. BURNING HER BOATS 239 

XLVI. A MYSTERY 241 

XLVII. THE REVELATION 249 

XLVIII. BREAKING IT 256 

XLIX. THE SACRIFICE 259 

L. AUNT SOPHIA’S SECRET 262 

EPILOGUE— THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 265 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD 


PROLOGUE. 

AT THE “INVENTORIES.” 

It was a very hot night at the Inventions, which was the rea- 
son, or one of the reasons, which made Mr. Arthur Forester and 
Miss Cicely Forester prefer sitting in the balcony of the Chinese 
department to walking about the grounds. Their chairs were 
very close together, and they were evidently on such intimate 
and familiar terms with each other that if one had been in- 
formed that they bore the same name it was easy for even a bad 
hand at guessing to infer that they were brother and sister. It is 
easier, however, to guess than to guess right; and as a matter of 
fact they were first-cousins. 

There is something, to my mind, very pleasant in that relation- 
ship between two young persons of opposite sexes, since, in addi- 
tion to its present advantages, it offers possibilities which nearer 
relationship does not admit of, and which, when one of the two 
parties, as in Miss Cicely’s case, is twenty-one years of age and ex- 
ceedingly pretty, are apt to occur to the other, and perhaps even 
to both. To occur to one— the mere mental operation — is indeed, 
as has been said of guessing, very easy; a great many occurrences 
of the same nature have probabl}’’ happened to most of us, whereas 
to occur, in the sense of realization and actual fact, is not so com- 
mon. There were several obstacles to the suggestion in question 
being carried out in the present case; to begin with — which ren- 
dered it unnecessary to dwell upon the rest — the young people 
had not a penny between them. This phrase, of course, is not to 
be taken literally. They must, in fact, have had sixty p'ence— for 
it was Wednesday, and a half-crown night— to enable them to be 
at the Inventions, or, as some have lightly termed it, “The Flash- 
eries,” at all ; while they had had to pay an additional twelve 
pence apiece for their seats in the balcony. The very cigar which 
Mr. Arthur was smoking had certainly cost something — though I 
am not prepared to say it had been paid for by the consumer — 
more than a penny. The coin, indeed, has such a relative sense 


8 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


that some Algies and Adelas are said to have “ not a penny be- 
tween them” wlien they have ten thousand pounds. We call 
them “as poor as Job,” but their case only resembles that patri- 
arch’s before the final catastrophe fell upon him, and when he 
still retained a little something, such as his camels. But Arthur 
and Cicel)^ (or Sissy, as he called her, perhaps to keep up the delu- 
sion that he only loved her in a brotherly way) had really nothing 
that could be called their own at all, except a few debts. Their 
parents had moderately good incomes, which died with them, 
and large families, which did not. It was necessary, therefore, 
that the girls should be provided for— wuth more or less well-to- 
do husbands, and that the boys should provide for themselves. 
There was no more thought of fortune-hunting in the former case 
than of greed in the latter, and they all thoroughly understood 
their positions. 

It is the fashion to accuse 5mung women of heartlessness who 
in love affairs manifest any common-sense; yet I am inclined to 
think that the love which is really genuine, or, at all events, that 
is worth much, has alwa3’^s a substratum of that kind. There are 
young ladies who are ready enough to marry him they please to 
call “the man of their choice,” though they know he has only 
sufficient to maintain them during the hone3^-moon. I do not 
blame them— I am much too polite for that, I hope; but I pity 
them, and I also pity him. 

Sissy Forester was as affectionate and tender-hearted a girl as 
ever said “ Yes ” to a lover, but she was not a fool. In this re- 
spect she had the advantage of Mr. Arthur. The young man, in- 
deed, was clever enough; if he did not get on at his profession — 
the Bar— it was only for want of practice. He had a ready wit; 
he would have been even diligent had there appeared the remot- 
est chance of the blossom of his legal learning turning into fruit; 
but to sit in lonely chambers, poring over law books, without 
the shadow of a client crossing one’s threshold, is weary work. 
What makes it so sad is that there is no means of informing the 
priesthood of Themis that you are thus sacrificing yourself upon 
her altar. So far as they are coneerned you might just as well 
be enjoying yourself. If one could only put a board up over 
one’s chambers, “To Solicitors and Others,” stating how long 
one had been at it, and for how many hours a day, it might at- 
tract some passing “solor.’s” attention, and so bring business; 
but the etiquette of the profession forbids this. Arthur’s cham- 
bers, with half a clerk, cost his father a hundred a year, and he 
lived at home. 

With these prospects he would have married Cicely Forester 
to-morrow, but having an uneasy suspicion that she was a very 
sensible girl, as well as a very charming one, he had never vent- 
ured to ask her to become his wife. There would have been no 
excuse, of course, for such an act of lunacy, but there would 
have been a mitigation; for if he did not ask her himself, and 


9 


AT THE ‘‘INVE^^TOElES.’’ 

pretty soon, lie knew that somebody else would do so. It was 
not only the well-founded apprehension that so adorable a creat- 
ure would find others to worship at her shrine that troubled him, 
but the existence of an actual suitor. This was a Mr. Dunlow, a 
friend of Sissy’s father, a man not, indeed, in his first youtli, but 
whose years could not be called disproportionate to her own; a 
worthy fellow of good means, who had not yet, indeed, proposed 
to her, but concerning whom it was well understood that she 
“had only to hold up her little finger” to bring him to her feet. 
She had, as Arthur believed, no feeling warmer than regard for 
the gentleman at present ; but the pale flame Regard is soon 
fanned by circumstances into something stronger and brighter, 
and all the circumstances were in his favor. Before Arthur’s 
jealous eyes was present everywhere the somewhat plump form 
of Mr. Robert Dunlow. He saw him now in the wavering band 
of the electric light, and in the dancing fountain, just as Sissy’s 
mental vision would have seen him (though under a very differ- 
ent aspect) had she been really in love with him. Even while 
the young fellow was speaking to the girl, his thoughts would 
often stray to his rival, and render bitter the very cup of pleasure 
which was at his lips. It was this, perhaps, as well as the fact 
that he dared not speak of what he would, that made Arthur 
Forester more silent in his cousin’s company than elsewhere. 

“ How like life itself all this is. Sissy,” he murmured, after one 
of many pauses. “The music and the color and the splendor 
last such a little time, and then everything appears more dark 
and blank by contrast.” 

“Not to those who prefer Nature to Art,” was the quiet reply. 
“To my mind the moon yonder is preferable, at all events for a 
permanency, to all these garish lights, nor is a brass baud abso- 
lutely necessary to my existence.” 

“You are very hard on me,” he murmured, gently, striving in 
vain to meet her eyes, which were fixed on the fairy scene before 
her. 

“ What have I said that is hard? Is it because I have spoken 
the truth?” 

“Now you are still harder. You mean to imply that I shrink 
from looking facts in the face?” 

“I congratulate you on your promptness in drawing an in- 
ference.” 

“Thank you,” he answered, bitterly; “it is pleasant^because 
so rare, to hear you admit that I can do anything.” 

“ I have never doubled your abilities, Arthur,” she replied, with 
tender gravity ; she knew that she was hurting his feelings, and suf- 
fered more than he did himself from the keenness of her own 
^vords — she used them as the surgeon uses his knife, unwillingly, 
yet for the patient’s good. 

“ What is the use of abilities when there is no scope for them?” 
was his impatient rejoinder, which lost, however, some of its 


10 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


vehemence from the fact of its being delivered under his hreath. 

“ Heaven knows I have read hard enough, and perse veringly 
enough too; you don’t know what it is to ask for work anil be 
denied it.” 

“Whom have you asked?” she inquired, in a tone in which 
curiosity was hot so distinctly marked as a certain quiet irony. 

“Asked? Well, one can’t go touting for briefs like a com- 
mercial traveller,” he answered, angrily; “there is only one way, 
they tell me, by which a man can get on now at the bar who has 
no connection,” 

“ What is that?” 

“He must marry an attorney’s daughter! You would not ad- 
vise me to do that, I suppose?” 

The last words were uttered in a very low and gentle tone, and 
he cast a plaintive glance at her as he awaited her reply, which 
did not come immediately. 

“ If I were in your place I would do anything, anything, rather 
than live a life of idleness.” 

“But how can I help being idle?” 

There was no answer save a little shrug of the shoulders, but it 
was full of significance. 

“You despise me. Sissy?” 

“I despise all idle young men.” 

Her voice was steady, but her face was deadly pale, and the 
hand which rested on the rail in front of her trembled in its little 
glove. 

The young man flushed to his forehead, half rose from his seat, 
and then sat down again. There was a crowd of people all 
around them, and he could scarcely leave her there alone; they 
had no suspieion, of course, of what was passing in his mind; 
they thought he had only risen to draw the coffee-cup which was 
on the table nearer to him; but his soul was consumed with an- 
ger and shame and love. It was a balcony scene of a very dif- 
ferent kind from tfie one in “Romeo and Juliet.” 

“To taunt me with idleness. Sissy, when it is no fault of mine,” 
he muttered between his teeth, “ is most cruel and unkind.” 

“ Cruel if you will,” she answered, huskily (turning on him a 
reproachful glance which seemed to say, “ Cruel, indeed, it is, but 
not to you alone cruel if you will, but not unkind, nay, 
‘cruel only to be kind.’ ” 

There was a long pause. The fairy fountain rose and fell, and 
blushed and paled, and rose and fell again ; the myriad lights 
twinkled from the trees and from the sward, and from the stream 
beneath them; the music grew and failed, and died and rose and 
died again ; but of none of these things did this unhappy pair take 
note, but communed with their own sad hearts in silence. 

“ What would you have me do?” at last he murmured, hoarsely. 

“Your duty. Is it fitting, is it manly, that you should ask"a 
_girl for counsel in such a matter?” 


AT THE ^‘inventories.” 11 

“Since you were so free with your blame, I thought perhaps 
you might have some advice to give me,” he answered, reproach- 
fully. 

“ As to the blame, I beg pardon, I had no right to blame you.” 

“Do not say that, dear Sissy, do not say that,” he murmured, 
pleadingly. “Whatever you tell me to do, I will do it.” 

“That is to say, you would shift your responsibilities to my 
shoulders,” was the indignant reply. “You are not a child, 
Arthur; you surely know what is right and what is wrong with- 
out being told.” 

“But it is not a question of right only. Listen to me, pray 
listen to me, Sissy,” for she had moved her head impatiently, “ I 
have had an appointment offered me in India, a very small thing, 
but still something. Do you know of it?” 

“Yes, I know of it.” 

“And yet you have never spoken of it to me?” 

“Nor you to me.” 

“Oh, but that is so different. If I accept this appointment, 
which may or may not lead to something better, something worth 
having, it cannot come for years.” 

“ Does something worth having — a competence I suppose you 
call it — generally come to young gentlemen of twenty-eight? Or 
do you think your merits demand the special intervention of 
Providence in your favor?” 

“But if I took this post, should I not lose you. Sissy?” 

“ I was not aware that you had ever won me.” 

“That is true; I have never dared to ask you to be my wife. 
How could I, being penniless?” 

“How indeed!” 

“ Yet I love you with all my heart and soul. I would give my 
life to make you happy. To be with you, except for the thought 
of parting from you, is heaven itself; but that thought is always 
intruding. I am like one in a blissful dream, who is nevertheless 
conscious that he is dreaming, and will sooner or later awaken 
to misery. Even at my worst— when I am most despondent — I 
worship you. 

“ ‘ The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow ; 

The devotion of sometliiug afar 
From the sphere of my sorrow,’ 

then fills all my being; at my best — but that is only dreaming.” 

The girl kept her face averted from her lover, but she did not 
interrupt him. Once she had striven to do so, but her tongue had 
refused to do its office; the temptation of listening to those pas- 
sionate words, it might be for the last time, had been too strong 
for her. She had suffered herself for the moment, despite pru- 
dence and a fixed resolve to the contrary, to be carried away by 
it. She was greatly agitated. The rose in her bosom shook and 
lost its petals; they dropped upon her lap, and one would have 


12 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


fluttered to the ground, but her companion caught it unobserved. 
Her eyes were wet with tears. 

“ Sissy dear,” went on the young man, in a changed voice, “I 
have done with protestations; if you do not believe that I love you 
truly, it is useless for me to say any more. Only if you ask me 
why it is I have not gone to India, it is because I felt that in so 
doing I should be leaving you to another.” 

She shook her head decisively. 

“ What?” His face lit up with a brightness no electric flame 
could rival. “Will you promise that in my absence you will not 
marry Mr. Dunlow?” 

“I shall never marry Mr. Dunlow.” 

“ Thank Heaven for that.” It was pretty to see how, since the 
girl had said it, he took her word as though the thing were an ac- 
complished fact. “ And is it possible,” he went on, breathlessly, 
“that for all that time — one knows not how long it may be — you 
will wait for me?” 

It was not because Cicely had not made up her mind upon the 
matter that she hesitated to reply. She was very much in love 
with Arthur, but by no means prepared to cast all prudence to 
the winds; if once a promise passed her lips, it became a law of 
her being, which made her less hasty than some young women 
can afford to be in saying “ Yes,” Moreover, though she admired 
and respected Arthur (for indeed she could not otherwise have 
loved him), she had no great confidence in the stability of his 
character. Under the conditions of life to which he had been ac- 
customed there was no fault to find with him. He was a whole- 
some-minded, generous, affectionate young fellow. But to hard 
work, discomfort, and self-dependence he had been unaccus- 
tomed; nor, though he had met with ill-success, had he known 
what it was to suffer from it materially. 

That he had said nothing beyond the truth when speaking of 
his devotion to her, she was well convinced; but she thought it 
possible, nay, probable, that the thought of winning her would 
not be able to support him under circumstances such as he was 
only too likely to meet with in the new life which had been pro- 
posed to him. What if, after a year or two, he should return to 
England, a failure, as poor as ever, with even less hope of getting 
on in his profession than at present, and yet bound to marry a 
penniless girl? She was thinking of him far more than of her- 
self; but she thought of herself too — of the wreck that would thus 
be made of both their lives. If he succeeded, in however small 
a way, she would be well content; and however long a time he 
took about it, she was willing to wait for him. She knew her- 
self to be true as steel. But with that alternative of wretchedness 
for both of them before her eyes, she was resolute not to say 
“ Yes.” On the other hand, how should she persuade him to take 
the only course that offered for his good without giving him the 
assurance of her fidelity. 


13 


AT THE “inventories.” 

“You have not answered my question, Sissy,” resumed the 
young man, importunately. “I have told you how I love you; 
you have only to say one little word, and from that moment I 
have something to live for, something to hope for, something to 
work for. I know it is very selfish of me to ask you to say it, to 
ask you to wait for years — perhaps for many years— for an absent 
man, while your beauty fades (if indeed it can ever fade) and your 
youth departs.” 

“ It is not that" she put in quickly. 

“ Can it be, then, that you doubt me? Oh, Sissy, I will be faith- 
ful to you as long as I live. I promise you before Heaven — ” 

Again she interrupted him with earnest vehemence. “ I do 
not doubt you, Arthur, but I will not accept your promise. I 
wish you to be free. That must be our bargain, if bargain there 
is to be between us. We must both be free.” 

“That is impossible, seeing one of us is already bound,” he 
answered, bitterly. “ I at least am yours. I have sworn it.” 

“Such a contract can hardly be binding,” she went on, with 
a forced smile, “without the consent of both parties.” 

“ Then you, on your part, refuse to reciprocate my trust?” 

“I did not say that. But I will make no promise. We must 
both be free.” 

It was no wonder that he did not understand her. We are not 
so unconscious of our own weaknesses as it is the fashion to as- 
sert, but we are often ignorant of how they strike other people. 
He was quite willing to undergo any inconveniences, and much 
more than inconveniences, for any time, for his love’s sake, but 
lie disliked the idea of going to India for other reasons than that 
he had given her, though that, it was true, was the chief reason. 
Arthur Forester was a product (and not a discreditable one) of 
culture and high civilization, and he did not relish exile. Better 
and higher natures than his own have not shrunk from it, nor 
have thought of such an exodus as exile at all, but from going 
to India without the promise of his beloved assured to him he 
did shrink. And yet he was not angry with Sissy because she 
had not given him her promise; it was very difficult for him 
to be angry with her under any circumstances, and her assurance 
that she did not intend to marry Mr. Dunlow had made him very 
grateful to her. He was also certain, it must be remembered, 
though she had not said so in so many words, that she loved 
him. 

They sat in silence for many moments; presently Sissy ex- 
claimed, softly, “There is godmamma.” She drew back a little, 
not wishing to be recognized, and pointed over the balcony to an 
old lady going by on the path below in an arm-chair. Arthur’s 
eyes listlessly followed the direction of her finger. 

“Is she not beautiful? Is she not magnificent?” asked Sissy, 
with enthusiasm. 

“ She looks like a princess,” assented the young man. 


14 


A PRI^^CE OF THE BLOOD. 


“ Do you think so? Now, if you knew all, that is very curious.'’ 

“Indeed! Is she really then a princess?” 

“ Among all the thousands that are in these gardens,” said Sis- 
sy, ignoring tiiis inquiry, which indeed was put half in jest, and 
still following the slow moving figure with her eyes, “there is 
none whose history has been such a romance as hers; moreover, 
she is the best of women ; her whole life, which I fear is fast 
coming to a close, is passed in doing good.” 

“Quite a fairy godmother, in short,” he answered, lightly. 
“ Why have 5^ou never told me about her? What is her story?” 

At this simple question, which followed so naturally upon the 
conversation which had preceded it, a change passed over the 
girl’s face. It brightened up, not exactly with pleasure, but with 
the satisfaction that is derived from the sense of a difficulty 
smoothed away. 

“Yes; you shall know her story. That is,” she continued, 
gravely," if she will give me permission to reveal it, for it is known 
only to a very few.” 

“Why not tell it me yourself? If it is a long one, so much 
the better. We will come here every evening, and you shall go 
on with it — this is the very place for it — like Scheherezade in 
the ‘ Arabian Nights.’ ” 

“No. It is no tale to be listened to lightly,” she answered, with 
gravity; “you must read it with care and lay it to heart. It con- 
tains the only answer I can give you, Arthur, to the question you 
put to me a few minutes ago.” 

“ Are you serious? You may be sure that not a syllable will 
escape my attention; but how shall I recognize your dear self in 
the story of another? I am not very good" at a moral lesson,” he 
added, deprecatingly, “especially if it takes the form of alle- 
gory.” 

“There is no allegory in godmamma’s story; the lesson it 
teaches is simple enough, and applies as much to me as to 
you.” 

He looked amazed and puzzled, as well he might. 

“You must find the key of it for yourself. See, the fountain 
has leaped its last; we must be going home.” 

“Ah, if my home was but your home. Sissy dear, will you 
not promise?” 

“No; I will not promise,” she answered, firmly. “For both 
our sakes, Arthur, we must be free.” 

The very next morning, for Miss Cicely was prompt in all she 
did, there arrived a MS. at Mr. Arthur Forester’s chambers in the 
Temple. He received it, if not with the same rapture, with as 
much excitement as though it had been a brief. It was a lengthy 
document, but occupied only a small space, being written in a 
neat but almost microscopic hand. Scrupulously clean, it bore 
tokens of much use, for it had had one constant reader; the same 
fingers had wrinkled it, the same eyes had pored over it and wa- 


A DISUNITED FAMILY. 


15 


tered it with their tears again and again. On the flap of the en- 
velope were written in Cicely’s hand these words, which might 
have been taken for a motto, but which her lover recognized as 
a personal monition: 

“ I sympathize with her regrets.” 


CHAPTER I. 

A DISUNITED FAMILY. 

On June the 13th, 1835, four persons were breakfasting togeth- 
er in a private room at the “ George Hotel,” Portsmouth. They 
were a family party consisting of a gentleman and three ladies. 
The former, Mr. Ernest Norbury, was a person of some note in 
the city, and of peculiar importance in the eyes of the East India 
Company, which was in the last days of its greatness. He had 
held more than one high post in India, and was now, somewhat 
to the astonishment of his friends, who had assumed him to have 
shaken the pagoda-tree with sufficient skill upon previous occa- 
sions to render further application to it unnecessary, about to fill 
another. He was about sixty years of age, short, but squarely 
built, with a strong, intelligent face. His complexion, naturally 
pale, had not been rendered swarthy by the tropic sun to which 
it had been exposed, and though his life had been by no means 
devoid of action, he was of corpulent habit, which added to the 
effect produced by a pompous and dictatorial manner. 

Miss Sophia, his sister and junior by five ^years, resembled him 
in figure, though she was much stouter, but in no other respects. 
Her face was flat and florid; she smiled whenever there was an 
excuse for smiling. Her enemies, if she had any, which she had 
not, might have said that this was to show her teeth, which were 
very white and even; but this was not the case: she smiled from 
pure good -nature, and also sometimes to mitigate wrath. Her 
manner was hesitating, especially when addressing the head of 
the family; the expression of her countenance was weak and un- 
decisive, though by no means unpleasing. It was whispered, but 
not widely believed, that she had once been very good-looking. 
The other two members of the party belonged to another genera- 
tion. The elder of the two. Miss Eleanor, Mr, Norbury’s daugh- 
ter, was twenty-four years of age; she was tall and slight and'shm, 
and her complexion was pasty, but, like her father’s (though she 
too had been to India), it had not been baked by the sun. Her 
eyes were of pale blue, and her manner for her age and sex ex- 
ceedingly undemonstrative. She was of a reserved nature and 
spoke little, but when she did it was to the point; she was one of 
those conscientious people who do not allow eveo their silence to 
lie misunderstood. 


16 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Miss Edith, Idr. Norbiiry’s niece, was five years younger than 
her cousin, and therefore two years short of being of age. Though 
she was going to India, like her aunt, for the first time, she was 
darker than her uncle and cousin who had lived there. Her com- 
plexion was naturally very delicate, but not having had a mother 
to look after it (for she had been left an orphan at a very early 
age), it had been somewhat bronzed by our summer suns — a cir- 
cumstance, however, which did not prevent her being exceed- 
ingly comely. Her eyes were gray, intermixed with hazel, and 
her hair, which was very luxuriant, was of a deep brown. She 
had a fine color and a very charming figure. Her dress was far 
simpler than that of her cousin, but very becoming. Nobody, 
however (of the male sex), could have thought of her dress while 
looking at Edith Norbury, and if he did so it would only have 
been to make the general but private observation, “ That girl 
would look well in anything.” 

The expression of her changeful face was nevertheless just 
now by no means jo3mus; she had a depressed air which struck 
one as incongruous and unsuitable in her. This depression was 
not unobserved by the others, but except for an occasional squeeze 
of her hand from Aunt Sophia, when opportunit}'- olfered itself 
for this expression of sympathy, it was ignored. Mr. Norbury 
was reading his newspaper to himself, and the rest were silent. 
The viands were plentiful, but it was an uncomfortable and un- 
sociable meal. 

“ The Ganges starts to-morrow morning at daybreak,” presently 
observed Mr. Norbuiy, in loud, authoritative tones, like those of 
a crier giving public notice. “ As everything has been satisfac- 
torily arranged, there will be no need for us to go on board till the 
evening, in the cool.” 

The last words were suggested by his tropical experience. It 
is natural for the Anglo-Indian to do everything with reference to 
the temperature; but, as a matter of fact, it was warm enough 
even at Portsmouth. 

The High Street, on which the windows of the “ George ” looked 
down, was baking hot; the soldiers that passed in their stiff stocks 
and close-fitting uniforms excited the pit}’- of the civilians, as the 
sailor with his loose and low-necked garb aroused their envy. 
The trees on the ramparts at the end of the street moved not a 
leaf. The flags on the dwellings of the great military and naval 
authorities clung to their staffs as though they were themselves 
in “oflice;” even the smaller bunting on the ships in harbor, 
caught sight of here and there through gaps in the houses or over 
their roofs, had not a flutter in them. , Distant firing broke on the 
eiir complainingly, as though it were too hot for drill. 

“ It is really too warm to do anything,” remarked Aunt Sophia, 
fanning her ample self with a local guide-book. 

“1 am going shopping,” said Miss Eleanor. 

This was not merely a reproof to laziness, though the tone con- 


A DISUNITED FAMILY. 


17 


yeyod that moral lesson. It had a much more direct significance; 
it implied that she must have a companion. 

“ Would it not be better to wait till it gets a little cooler, my 
dear?” remarked Aunt Sophia. 

“No doubt; only, unfortunately, it is a law of nature that the 
higher the sun rises the warmer it gets. As for me, I am not made 
of sugar.” 

To judge by the tone in which she spoke, she certainly was 
not. 

“ Well, it is quite impossible that you can walk out alone, my 
dear, in a place like this — so military and naval,” sighed Aunt 
Sophia. She cast an appealing glance at Edith; but that young 
lady, who had already finished her meal, which had been a very 
scanty one, and was sitting pensively at an open window, made 
no sign. It was probable she had not even heard the conversa- 
tion, Miss Eleanor curled her lip, which was by nature straight 
and very thin. 

“ Come,” she said, impatiently, “ let us be off.” 

The two ladies retired, and presently reappeared with their 
bonnets on. Mr. Norbury was still behind his paper, his niece 
still at the window. 

“You are not coming with us, Edie, I suppose?” said Aunt 
Sophia, cheerfully. The girl shook her head. “Well, I must 
say it is rather warm for walking,” as if in apology for the oth- 
er’s dumb refusal. 

“What nonsense!” ejaculated Miss Eleanor. “If you think 
this warm, what will you think of India?” 

“I shall be dug out,” said Aunt Sophia, prophetically. It 
was a phrase she always used to express her feelings in a lieated 
atmosphere; but she used it now with quite pathetic despair. 
She looked forward to a residence in the gorgeous East with the 
utmost horror. “My dear,” she had once said to Edith in con- 
fidence, “I would rather live in Whitechapel all my days than go 
to India. I shall melt away there to nothing, and you will have 
to remove the last of me with brown paper and a hot iron.” 
She was serious, though she spoke in jest. “ Circumstances over 
which she had no control,” in the personage of her brother Er- 
nest, were impelling her; and in Edith’s case she spoke to sym- 
pathetic ears. Eleanor, on the other hand, ridiculed her appre- 
hensions. She could hardly be said to make fun of them, for 
she had not in her nature the materials for fun, nor did she make 
light of them. On the contrary, her humor was to exaggerate to 
her aunt the disagreeables of life in India. She discoursed upon 
the thug and the tiger with affected familiarity, and raised the 
temperature to imaginary degrees. As somebody said of her 
who knew her well, Eleanor Norbury had the grimness of a 
school-boy without his light heart. 

Some niiniites elapsed after the ladies had departed which were 
passed by the occupants of the apartment in complete silence, 
o 


18 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Edith, with her chin resting on her little hand, and her elbow on 
the window-ledge, sat deep in thought, and apparently uncon- 
scious of her companion’s presence; not so, however, Mr. Nor- 
bury. lie sat facing her with the newspaper still before him, 
but ever and anon over the edge of it he shot a furtive glance at 
his niece, which seemed to give him anything but satisfaction. 
At last he rose, and in a bland and studiously conciliatory voice 
observed, “Is your outfit complete? Edith, is there anything, 
any comfort or luxury, which my forethought has not provided? 
There is plenty of time to rectify any such omission, and if Ports- 
mouth contains the article or articles in question, I will make it 
my business to procure them for you.” 

“Thank you, uncle; no, I have everything I require.” How 
feeble are words as a vehicle of expression compared with the 
voice that speaks them, or with the manner in which they are de- 
livered. Though the girl’s reply was a strictly accurate one, her 
meaning seemed somehow the very reverse of that which her 
speech conveyed. IMr. Norbury looked at her steadily, as, after 
a momentary glance towards him, she had resumed her former 
position, and with a heavy frown and a smile that fitted it took up 
his hat. “An obstinate wench,” he murmured to himself as he 
went down-stairs. “To have withstood such an offer as that, 
which, as she knew, must have comprehended a new bonnet at 
least, and might even have run to jewellery, shows in a woman 
quite an unparalleled amount of pig-headedness. Tush! she’s in 
the sulks, that’s what she’s in. Well, well, like Madeira she’ll be 
better for going round the Cape. A sea vo3"age and a couple of 
3'^ears in India will wean her from her folly. Absence makes the 
heart grow fonder, they say. In that case, Mr. Charles Layton, 
she will adore you, for I shall take care she never sees your face 
again.” 


CHAPTER II. 

ON THE RAMPARTS. 

As soon as Edith Norbury found herself alone, she uttered a 
deep sigh of relief. The temperature without and within was 
hotter than ever, but the oppression which had weighed upon her 
almost to suffocation was withdrawn. For the first time since 
she had left her room that morning she felt free to look and 
move as she pleased. “The breath of man,” science tells us, “ is 
deadly to his fellow-creatures;” but hardly less so, under certain 
circumstances, is his presence. In the same room with her uncle 
Ernest, Edith Norbury experienced much the same sensations 
as some very intelligent and bright-eyed bird who finds itself in 
the same compartment with a snake. Let him be ever so fas- 
cinating in his manner, he would end, she was convinced, by de- 


ON THE RAMPARTS. 


19 


stroying her. His flattering speeches, his offers of costly gifts 
were only so many acts of lubrication intended to make the 
swallowing her the easier. If asked for an explanation of her 
apprehension, she would have found it difficult to give one. It 
was not Ernest Norbury’s nature to be demonstratively kind to 
any one, but to Edith he had been always both generous and gra- 
cious. He had put himself out of the way, in fact, to be agree- 
able to her; nor was it his fault so much as his misfortune that 
the effort had been very perceptible. As a host— and she had 
lived in his house for the three years which had elapsed since her 
father’s death had left her orphaned — she had had nothing to 
complain of him. His table was liberal, his carriage had been 
as much at her own service as at that of his daughter, or of his 
sister, who resided with him. As a kinsman he not only made 
no difference between those ladies and herself, but made much 
more “fuss” with her than with either of them - his enemies 
said because she was an heiress, but that seemed hardly prob- 
able, since he was a man of means himself and had therefore 
not the weighty reason for that worship of wealth in another 
which bows down most heads so low. In no domestic relation 
to her, it was certain, could Uncle Ernest be considered as an ogre. 
He was also, however, her guardian, and had absolutely and de- 
cisivel} forbidden her to marry the man of her choice. 

For one of her age and sex Edith Norbury had a strong sense 
of justice, and she sometimes asked herself was it fair, for this 
one action, cruel and unreasonable though it was of him, that 
she should ignore all her uncle’s previous good conduct towards 
her, and impute to him she scarce knew what, of evil, but some- 
thing which filled her involuntarily— nay, against her will — with 
a vague loathing and terror? With Mr. Charles Layton, Barris- 
ter-at-law, she was without doubt very much in love. Before 
she met him, her later life, notwithstanding she was still so young, 
had been as a dull, monotonous sea, while ever since it had been 
lit with smiles and sunshine; and now that his presence was for- 
bidden, it had not only become dull again, but gray and cold, 
without the least gleam of light in the horizon. Uncle Ernest, 
doubtless, did not quite believe that matters were so bad as this 
with her, but she had done her best to convince him of it. She 
had assured him with all the eloquence of nature’s pleading that 
the happiness of her life depended on her engagement, and he 
had been deaf to her tears and prayers. He had given, of course, 
liis reasons, or rather his reason, for his cruel conduct, and that 
had seemed to her a wholly inadequate one. 

Mr. Layton, he said, was a needy man, whereas she was an 
heiress. He was making, however, a gradually increasing in- 
come at the law, and was certainly both diligent and clever, and 
he had some expectations, though of an uncertain kind. Under 
these circumstances it had been infamous of Uncle Ernest to call 
him an adventurer, yet that was the term which in a long and 


20 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


painful interview with his niece he had applied o her iover. 
Perhaps this plain speaking, even more than her uncle’s bare re- 
fusal of her petition, was at the bottom of her changed feelings 
towards him. The man who could call Charles Layton an ad- 
venturer seemed to her capable of saying, yes and doing, any- 
thing, Stung by indignation and despair, she had told Uncle 
Ernest that if his only objection to her marriage with her lover 
was in truth disparity of fortune, he, her guardian, might take 
her money for himself, and then Charley would take her penni- 
less and prove that he was no adventurer. 

This reasonable proposition, so far from finding favor in Uncle 
Ernest’s eyes, made him what could only be described as furious. 
He had not only looked and spoken as she had never thought it 
possible he could look and speak, but had somehow left behind 
him the impression that he had shown her his true face, with the 
mask off, for the first time. From that hour all confidence in 
Uncle Ernest was gone, and even the grounds on which her con- 
fidence in him had hitherto rested were gone with it. She did 
not forget, of course, his hospitality, nor the solicitude he had so 
long exhibited for her welfare; but they no longer seemed to 
have been dictated by duty. It was impossible, if he loved his 
dead brother as he had professed to do, that he could have be- 
haved as he had done to that dead brother’s child. That Edith’s 
father had nevertheless believed that he had loved him was cer- 
tain; he had not only left his whole fortune in trust to him for 
her benefit, but her future, until she should come of age, entirely 
in his hands. He had the absolute disposal of her as regarded 
her place of residence, and this right he was pushing to the ut- 
termost by taking her with him to India. 

The reason of so much power being confided in him was, un- 
happily, the very reason which Uncle Ernest gave for his thus 
exporting her. Her father had been afraid that his daughter’s 
fortune would attract adventurers, and had therefore armed her 
guardian with every weapon to defend her against them. He 
would have made her a ward in Chancery but that he believed 
in his brother’s judgment more than in that of the law; nor, final- 
ly, had he been content with even these measures of precaution. 
Like one who keeps fast his prisoner with bolt and bar, and also 
puts him on his honor, her father had besought her to look on 
her uncle as a second parent, and even obtained a promise from 
her as he lay dying that she would comport herself in all things 
to his brother Ernest’s will; and this was the bond that formed 
her firmest fetter. 

The Rev. John Norbury, Rector of Midstead and Canon of 
Dowmiuster, had never been suspected of being a saint, but nei- 
ther was he a man of the world in any sense. As the elder son 
of a wealthy father he had been always prosperous, quite inde- 
pendent of his Church preferment, Ilis money had come to him 
not only without effort, but without even the full knowledge of 


ON THE RAMPARTS. 


21 


how it came. Business would have been distasteful to him, no 
doubt, had he had any experience of it; but he had none. His 
younger brother, on the other hand, had shown great capacity 
for it, and the canon had admired him accordingly, as we are apt 
to admire our own flesh and- blood who distinguish themselves 
in matters out of our line. It was upon the whole no wonder 
that the canon, in leaving this life, had confided his daughter and 
her affairs so absolutely to his brother’s care. Filial love pre- 
vented her from resenting this fact, however much she regretted 
it, and she felt that however mistaken he had been, he had done 
his best for her. But she did resent her uncle’s conduct above 
measure, and while bowing to his authority for the sake of him 
who had delegated it, she felt that he had grossly abused it. 

To take her to India with him, not, as she was well convinced, 
because it was necessary, or because he could not have safely be- 
stowed her at home, but merely to separate her effectually from 
the man she loved, was an outrage. 

Such was Edith Norbury’s position as regarded her uncle 
Ernest — a state of things so grievous and intolerable that it made 
all other matters almost indifferent to her. Her relations with 
her cousin Eleanor were by no means what she would have 
wished them to be; but they had suffered no change, as in her 
uncle’s case, from good to ill. They had always been more or 
less uncomWtable — what diplomatists call “strained.” The 
cause of this was not very explicable to her. She was loath to 
accuse her cousin of jealousy, but she had certainly seemed to 
dislike the consideration with which her uncle had treated her. 
Eleanor would fain at first have given herself the airs of an elder 
sister, and when her efforts in that direction were put down by 
her parent with a strong hand their failure seemed to imbitter 
her against her. Of late she had by no means insisted upon this 
superiority of age, but had resented the attentions paid to Edith 
by their common friends, not hesitating to hiut that they were 
the result of her wealth rather than her merit. 

But where Edith felt her conduct the most keenly was with 
regard to Mr, Layton, of whom she knew Eleanor entertained a 
far better opinion than her father, and yet had taken the latter’s 
part in the controversy concerning the young man. At one time, 
unconscious of the pleasure her praise had given Edith, she had 
praised him to her exceedingly; but since he had declared his 
love for her cousin she had set herself against him. When re- 
minded of her approval of him, she did not deny it, and even 
confessed that it was his very desire to ally himself with Edith 
that set her against him. “He has no self-respect,” she said; 
“no man with proper pride, being in comparatively narrow cir- 
cumstances, would aspire to the hand of one so wealthy as your- 
self, even if he really loved you.” The poisonous sting in the 
tail of that speech was too niuch for Edith; she could not trust 
herself to reply to it, and from the moment it was uttered she 


22 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


felt that all which constitutes true friendship between her and her 
cousin was dead, if, indeed, it ever had an existence. Even Aunt 
Sophia, slow as she w'as to speak up, or out, about anything, when 
she heard those cruel words, had cried, “For shame, Eleanor!” 
but her niece had only added, “I was asked my opinion, and I 
have given it.” 

And it was with this girl for her companion, and with Ernest 
Norbury as her host and master, that Edith was about to embark 
for India, for a residence of at least two years. Was ever heiress 
in so sad a plight? Most girls went to India in search of a suitor 
— the motive, perhaps, which caused her cousin Eleanor to regard 
their exodus with such complacency — but she was about to be 
carried thither avowedly to escape from one. What pressure, it 
was only too probable, would be put upon her in the mean time! 
What efforts would be made to detach her from her lover! what 
risks lay even in the chapter of accidents extending over so long 
a period! and at the best how unhappy among such domestic 
surroundings must be her sojourn in a foreign land. 

Portsmouth, or rather its next-door neighbor, Southsea, was not 
unknown to Edith Norbury. It w^as not far from Midstead, and 
had been a favorite resort of the canon’s in the summer months. 
As a child she had played under those very trees upon the grassy 
rampart which she now beheld from the hotel window. It had 
been her custom, or her nurse’s custom, to see the evening gun 
fired from the neighboring bastion. The fancy seized her to re- 
visit these spots once more. That Uncle Ernest w^ould not ap- 
prove of it was certain. He disliked her going anywhere unac- 
companied by Eleanor or Aunt Sophia; but her apprehension of 
incurring his displeasure w^as not just now very keen — it is even 
doubtful whether it did not give her some zest for the enterprise. 

She put on her bonnet and started at once, for there was no 
knowing when her guardian might return. As for Eleanor, she 
had gone shopping, and for her last day’s shopping; and not- 
withstanding the heat of the weather, her absence might be count- 
ed upon up to luncheon time at least. On the ramparts it was by 
comparison cool, but not a soul had sought their shade but her- 
self. I have been told by competent authorities that Portsmouth 
is the best defended town, independent of natural position, in 
Europe; but at the date of our story the Portsdown lines did not 
exist, save perhaps in the brain of some engineer, importuning, 
and importuning in vain, an incredulous War Office. The old 
ramparts only, with their deep fosses, were there; the draw- 
bridges, the moats, the sluices, the subterranean footways, cun- 
ningly devised to interpose by serpentine windings the massive 
earth to the progress of the cannon-ball. All these things were 
familiar to Edith. The sentries pacing here and there in the dis- 
tance, the soldiers at drill on the common, or guarding with flash- 
ing bayonets the drab-clothed convicts at their spade-work — all 
looked as it had looked to her in the old days. She thought she 


ON THE RAMPARTS. 


23 


could discern the very house in the old-fashioned Jubilee-Terrace 
where they used to lodge. As nature knows no change, whatever 
happens to us mortals, so it seemed that human affairs here went 
on like clock-work, no matter who lived or died. How often, 
with her father’s hand tight clasped in hers, had she listened to 
the same dropping fire of musketry that now met her ear; how 
often gazed at those truculent offenders in drab, half in pity, half 
in fear. The canon had known all the authorities; she had sat 
with him in the governor’s pew in the garrison chapel, amid a 
blue and scarlet congregation, the movements of the service accom- 
panied, to her delight and awe, with jingling of spurs and rattling 
of scabbards. She had played with the sword-knots of old gener- 
als, and with the cocked hats of admirals of the red, white, and 
blue. Often had her father taken her up the harbor in some ten- 
oared galley, lent to him by the high officials in the dockyard, to 
visit the Victory, where Nelson died, or the biscuit manufactory 
which supplied the navy, but had always one to spare, a very hot 
and hard one, for her dainty teeth; or Portchester Castle, where 
the French prisoners were confined in the great war. 

She seemed to hear once more the measured beat of the oars, 
and the shrill notes of command of the little midshipmen who 
accompanied them. Yet how long ago it seemed, nevertheless, 
now dear papa was dead! In those days she had thought it a 
dreadful thing to die, but now it almost seemed to her a more 
dreadful thing to live. To dwell in exile far from home, and 
separated from the only being she loved, was indeed a cruel 
fate. Walking very slowly, and musing in this sad fashion as 
she walked, she came presently to her old friend, the evening- 
gun, now free from its little ring of spectators. One individual 
only was standing near it — a bearded gentleman, apparently 
an invalid, for in spite of the heat he wore a cloak. He had 
climbed the parapet, and was gazing through a spy-glass out ou 
Spithead, where the Ganges, as her uncle had informed her (in- 
deed, it was the only vessel there), was lying at anchor. She 
gazed at it too through the embrasure with sorrowful eyes and 
a sinking heart. That, then, was to be her floating prison for 
three months, after which she was to be a captive and an exile 
for nearly two years more on shore, hundreds of miles from 
Charley. She was so buried in these sad reflections that she 
did not notice that the stranger had slid off the parapet and ap- 
proached her. He was a young man, very good-looking, and, if 
an invalid, showed no traces of it in his face. His hair was 
brown and curling, his gray eyes were large and soft, but with 
plenty of intelligence in them; he had no whiskers or mustache, 
which perhaps caused his beard to misbecome him — it some- 
how looked as if it ought to belong to an older man. 

“If you are trying to make out the Ganges,” \\q said, in low, 
respectful tones, “ perhaps you would like to use my glass.” 
At the sound of his voice Edith turned round and started — nay, 


24 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


trembled in every limb. Her nerves, ordinarily strong enough, 
had been sorely tried of late, and her thoughts, fixed upon one 
object, took unconsciously a color from it which affected all 
around her. She felt it was but fancy, yet there was something 
in the stranger’s tone that reminded her of one who was no 
stranger, and which made her whole soul vibrate. Unable to 
acknowledge his courtesy even by a word, she gazed at him with 
intense amazement. As if understanding the cause of her per- 
plexity, he smiled a reassuring smile. “The hair,” he said, “is 
the hair of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob,” and with 
his left hand he gave a tug at his beard and off it came. The 
girl uttered a cry of delight. “Oh, Charley, Charley! — is it 
Charley?” 

“I think it is; it seems so, doesn’t it ?” he answered, with a 
tender smile, as he clasped her in his arms. “I thought I would 
just come aud say good-by,” 


CHAPTER III. 

“FAREWELL.” 

“You darling! you darling! - Let me go, Charley; the sentinel 
has his eye upon us.” 

“Quite right; his business is to see that we are not inter- 
rupted. His orders are to shoot all who have not the password 
— ‘ Faithful and True.’ ” 

“ Oh, Charley, suppose my uncle should come by,” she mur- 
mured, timorously. 

“Then the sentry has orders to fire low, Ho, my darling; 
your uncle has gone to the dockyai'd. I have just met him with 
his business face on. He believes I am still in Derbyshire.” 

“ How good of you to come so far just for one last word from 
my lips, and ” — here she smiled in the slyest and most bewitch- 
ing manner conceivable — “ and, the other thing.” 

“I would have, gone round the world for it,” he murmured, 
simply. 

“But how did you know you would meet me here?” 

“I did not know, I only hoped. You told me that you used 
to love the old ramparts, so I guessed that you would revisit them 
if you could, and alone. Fortune, you see, has at last begun to 
favor us. Perhaps she will do more.” 

“Oh no, oh no !” moaned the poor girl, bitterly; “she is 
against us. Even in sending you here — do not think me un- 
grateful, Charley, but even in that she is not kind. All that 
terrible farewell has now to come over again. I don’t think I 
can bear it, Charley; my heart will break.” Her pretty face, 
looking up into his with hopeless yearning, looked piteous and 
pathetic indeed. “ Oh, Charley, to part, to part, and not to meet 


FAREWELL. 


25 


It 




again for two long years. In that time you will have forgotten 
your poor Edie.” 

He smiled and shook his head incredulously, but it was evi- 
dently an effort to him to smile. The spectacle of her despair 
was terrible to him. 

“ Of course there is a short way out of all this, Edie,” he said, 
gravely, “and it is selfish of me not to take it. I could take you 
away with me to my sister’s house, and before a month was over 
could call you my lawful wife. I need not say how happy, be- 
yond all dreams of happiness, that would make me, and yet, as I 
have said, it is selfishness that prevents me. You are not of age, 
and though I am well convinced you know your own mind upon 
the matter, others will not think so. It will be said that I took 
advantage of your youth and inexperience to get your money 
when you come of age. Your uncle will say, ‘ Did I not always 
tell you he was an adventurer?’ and the world will believe him. 
In two years’ time I hope to be in a better position as to means. 
There will, at all events, be then no such great disparity between 
us, and I need not say that all you have will be made your own, 
as surely as lawyers can make it. I know,” he went on, in an- 
swer to her gesture of impatience, “ that nothing of this seems to 
you of importance, but I must keep my honor untarnished for 
your sake. Then, again, there is your promise to your father to 
obey your uncle in all things till you come of age. He obtained 
it, as I believe, under a false impression of his brother’s charac- 
ter, and, was it possible for him to do so, he would now release 
you from it gladly. Still, you gave it him.” 

“ On his death-bed,” murmured the girl, solemnly. 

“Yes; that, of course, in your eyes makes it the more binding. 
Would it be right, I ask myself, to persuade you to set that 
sacred promise at naught, even to make you happy — to save you 
from what I know must seem unmitigated wretchedness for two 
long years. I ask this, I say, of myself, and not of you. It 
would be cruel and cowardly to put the burden of reply upon 
my darling.” 

“ Nevertheless, dear, let me answer for myself,” she put in, 
gravely. “You are right, Charley; I felt it in my heart — no, 
not in my heart. My heart. Heaven help me, is pleading the 
other way — ” 

“And mine. Heaven knows!— and mine !” he cried, passion- 
ately. “ Oh! do not let us talk of it, or all is lost.” 

Once more he took her in his arms and clasped her close. It 
was a dangerous moment. He felt the “ Let us fl}^” rising to his 
lips, and well understood that if once they passed them she would 
not— could not— deny him. Love was strong in him, but duty, 
or what he deemed was duty, was stronger. The kiss he pressed 
upon her mouth, and which almost ruined all, was the seal of vic- 
tory. Having gained it, he would fain have made no more allu- 
sion to what it had cost him, nor retraced one step of that perilous 


26 


A .PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


way. Man-like he would have extracted his full of joy from the 
passing moment without a thought of the bitterness beyond; but 
with the girl it was different. Though she had made up her 
mind to bear them, she could not dismiss the miseries of the soli- 
tary and sunless future. 

“Two years — two years,” she murmured; “ between now and 
then what may not happen, Charley?” 

“ To be sure, what may not?” he replied, cheerfully, purposely 
mistaking her meaning. “There is no knowing what may turn 
up to our advantage. Perhaps before twenty-four hours are over 
our heads the sky may clear.” 

“How can it clear, Charley? In twenty-four hours there will 
be leagues of sea between us, and with every succeeding hour 
more leagues. It is dreadful, it is horrible!” She shuddered and 
shut her eyes, as though the outlook she pictured was of a physi- 
cal kind. He regarded her with a hesitating look, as though he 
had something to tell her, but doubted whether it would be wise 
to reveal it. “ Two years,” she went on; “ we may both be dead, 
or, worse, one of us may be dead!” 

“ Faithful and true, living or dead,” he murmured, smiling. It 
was the refrain of a song they used to sing together, and at the 
well-known words she smiled upon him with ineffable tenderness. 

“ I shall remember that, be sure,” she said. “ I shall be yours, 
and yours only, whether you live or die, until my life’s end.” 

“And I yours, Edie. But I say again let us hope for the best. 
I know what you are thinking of — that line we used to read to- 
gether, describing the vain and commonplace attempts at conso- 
lation — ‘And vacant chaff well meant for grain.’ Yet perhaps 
there may be some grain of hope for us.” 

“ Of hope?” she put in eagerly. “ Then you have some plan, 
some scheme. Oh, Charley, do not hide it from me. Give me 
some crumb of comfort.” 

A look of alarm had crossed his face at her first words, but be- 
fore she had done he had regained his composure. “ Well, well, 
since you insist upon my telling it you — though the whole thing 
is uncertain and in the clouds— the fact is, my cousin, the Attor- 
ney-general may possibly give me some work to do in Calcutta, 
which, though of a temporary kind, will be a good excuse for my 
coming out to India and seeing how you are going on.” 

“Oh, my darling, how delightful! But why have you kept this 
from me?” 

“ Well, for one thing, as I say, because the matter was not quite 
settled.” 

“ Then it is settled now. It is not in the clouds,” she exclaimed, 
rapturously. “Oh! when shall you be coming ? If I only know 
the date, that will be something to live for and to look forward to, 
to cast its sunshine through the mist and gloom of my existence.” 

“It is the shadow, and not the sunshine, that projects itself in 
that way my darling,” he answered, smiling, ‘ ‘ but you must really 


‘‘farewell.” 27 

not be so excited about it. That was one of the reasons which 
prevented my disclosing my little secret to you. I was afraid 
that you would build too much upon it, and show it by your 
manner. It would never do for Uncle Ernest to suspect just yet 
that I had any such plan in view. You must not suddenly throw 
off ybur woes, remember.” 

“Throw off my woes, Charley,” she murmured, reproachfully. 
“ How little you guess their weight! It is true that what you have 
told me is a gleam of sunshine; nay, for I must not be ungrateful, 
it gladdens my heart to its very core; but there is no fear of my 
spirits being too high. And when may I expect you? When do 
you sail from England?” she added, with access of interest that 
hardly fitted with the depression she had striven to paint. Again 
that look of alarm came over the young man’s features, but this 
time accompanied by one of self-reproach. 

“Perhaps in a year’s time,” he said, deliberately; then, as her 
face fell from expectation to extreme despondency, he added, 
“ Or perhaps even earlier.” 

“In a year’s time,” she murmured, like a melancholy but dis- 
tant echo. “ Great heavens! what a year it will be!” 

“Now, really, Edie, this is not being grateful,” he remonstrated, 
“nor even reasonable. One half of the time of our probation has 
suddenly been lopped away, and your face is no brighter for it.” 

“Because all that makes it bright is about to leave it,” she an- 
swered, simply. “We have been here — I know not how long, 
but it seems a moment— it may be hours. If my uncle returns 
and finds me from home, or what he calls home, he will be full 
of suspicion.” 

“You are right, my darling, as you always are. It is most im- 
portant that he should suspect nothing. Now one more kiss, and 
then farewell.” 

“A long farewell,” she moaned, despairingly. 

“Perhaps not so long as we think,” he answered, cheerfully. 

“Good-by, sweetheart, good-by.” 

He disengaged himself from her clinging arms with an effort, 
pressed his lips to her forehead, and walked quickly away. He 
did not even turn his head, and her woman’s instinct guessed the 
reason. He had already put his beard on, and he did not wish 
that her last look should not remind her of himself. As she gazed 
after his retreating form her tears began to fall for the first time. 
While he had been with her she could not afford to waste her 
time, and dim with weeping the sight that he would gladden no 
more. She watched him till he disappeared down the neighbor- 
ing bastion into the parade-ground, then slowly and sadly retraced 
her steps to the hotel. The cloud upon her spirits that had lifted 
a little descended again ; the pain of parting with her lover had, 
at all events for the present, done away with his good news. 
There was no fear of Uncle Ernest suspecting a hitch in his plans 
from any alteration in his unhappy niece’s manner. 


28 


A PKINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ON BOARD. 

There is nothing^ that shows the amazing adaptability of the 
human mind to changed conditions more than the philosophy 
with which it accepts life on board ship. The adaptability of 
the bod}'- is generally, it is true, even greater, but in this particu- 
lar case the body, or a very important part of it, is, strange to 
say, conservative. It resents the change from land to sea exceed- 
ingly. How any civilized being, much more one brought up, as 
the saying goes, “in the lap of luxury,” can voluntarily and with 
a light heart exchange terra firma, with its safety and its com- 
forts, for the horrors of the heaving deep, is simply inexplicable. 
Even Dr. Johnson, who was not very particular, expresses a natu- 
ral loathing at marine arrangements. In his time, indeed, pas- 
senger vessels were very different from what they are now, or 
even from what they were at the date of our story. But accept- 
ing all the modern rubbish about “ floating palaces ” and exquisite 
viands (which, nevertheless, all taste as if they had been boiled 
in the same cloth), and substituting “ bowers ” for bad berths, the 
fact still remains that one is “cabined, cribbed, confined” in a 
manner that one would not put up with for twent3'^-four hours, 
much more for whole weeks at a time, on shore. I say nothing 
about being shaken about with such violence as in any respect- 
able city in the world not visited by an earthquake would insure 
for the victim the protection of the police, nor of being the spec- 
tator of such behavior in one’s fellow-creatures as is never seen 
out of a hospital or spoken of in decent society. I leave out of 
the question the almost incredible fact that persons who can af- 
ford to escape it — not by the sacrifice of half their fortune, as one 
would suppose they would gladl}^ do, but by the payment of a 
few extra pounds — will even submit to live in the same cabin — a 
dog-kennel-— with a poor wretch thus afflicted for many days and 
nights, whereas, if you made any such proposition to them as re- 
gards travelling by land, they would take it as an insult and 
knock you down. Apart from these unspeakable horrors, the 
difference between life on sea and life on shore is enormous — far 
greater than that between poverty and riches, or between sick- 
ness and health upon the same plane; and though, of course, some 
people absolutely like a sea voyage, as there are others who like 
wintering in the Arctic regions or climbing hills, the comparative 
indifference with which the general public exchange the one for 
the other is a proof of the fitness of the human soul for any fate. 

To do her justice. Miss Eleanor Norbury was not in this re- 
spect to be mentioned among the common herd. Though it was 


ON BOARD. 


29 


not the first time she had gone by ship to India, she looked for- 
ward to the voyage on board the Ganges with anything but pleas- 
ure. She knew what the comforts of a cabin and the pleasures 
of a cuddy were even in calm weather. 

“ She had had enough of action and of motion, she 

Rolled to larboard, rolled to starboard, when the surge was seething 
free.” 

And had she been left to her own choice she would have 
rocked on “C” springs in her carriage. She did not deceive 
herself with any of the smooth commonplaces about “freedom 
of life at sea.” She called it the freedom of a hen-coop, and she 
did not deceive other people. Indeed, in describing how matters 
would be to her fellow-voyagers who had not had her experience, 
she drew them — doubtless with good intentions, and to prevent 
unreasonable expectations — even worse than they were — “ dipped 
her pencil in the hues of eclipse.” The consequence of which 
was, that poor Aunt Sophia was half dead with fright before she 
left the packet-boat that took them out in the evening over a 
glassy sea to the Ganges. In Edith’s case the evil auguries of 
her cousin fell upon deaf ears. When we are in sorrow we are 
more adaptable than ever, because we care little what becomes 
of us. The troubles of the mind, save in the case of acute physi- 
cal pain, override and obliterate those of the body, and much 
more the apprehension of them. The little party were received 
on board with very unusual marks of respect; for Mr. Norbury’s 
position “in the company” was well known. He had made 
special application to go by the Ganges, which, as a rule, carried 
no passengers at all; and every arrangement had been made for 
his comfort and convenience. Captain Head, a florid, resolute- 
looking man, with iron -gray hair and quiet, intelligent eyes, 
welcomed them in person. “I trust,” he said, “Mr. Norbury, 
that your party will find everything to their satisfaction; we have 
no other ladies on board to divide our attentions with them.” 

“No other ladies, you say,” answered the other, quickly; “no 
other gentlemen either, I hope. I thought that had been under- 
stood at the India House.” 

The captain shrugged his shoulders and smiled, but not in a 
very conciliatory manner. He did not like his passenger’s tone. 
“ I know nothing of any arrangement outside my ship,” he said, 
wdth an emphasis that implied that over all inside he was master, 
and not to be dictated to even by a member of the council. 
“ There are two gentlemen only with us besides yourself.” 

“ it’s no matter,” says Mr. Norbury, loftily, to which the cap- 
tain replied with another smile that seemed to suggest that it was 
no matter whether it mattered to Mr. Norbury or not. 

Then he turned to the ladies, whom he had already respectfully 
saluted, and addressed to them a few words of genial courtesy. 
They were uttered with the simplicity and frankness of a sailor, 


30 


A miNCE OF THE BLOOD. 


but not without a certain dignity. The captain of an Incliaman 
in those days was in a position little inferior to that of a man-of- 
war, which, indeed, the Ganges herself might also have been 
termed. She carried guns, was of six hundred tons burden, and 
was manned by a crew of nearly one hundred men. His manner 
impressed the ladies very differently. Miss Eleanor thought it was 
familiar, and even impertinent. Those domineering airs that be- 
long to most Europeans who have lived in the East, and which, 
even in England, remain at tlio best dormant, had revived with- 
in her. She looked upon the captain as an uncovenanted person. 
Aunt Sophia, on the other hand, dazzled by his uniform and 
charmed by his politeness, felt as though she was being patron- 
ized by royalty. His resolute countenance gave her confidence; 
the sword by his side seemed to be a guarantee against pirates, 
a danger which had pre.sented itself to her mind in vivid colors. 

Edith, whose beautiful but melancholy face had evidently 
awakened his interest, was greatly pleased with the captain. 
She recognized something paternal and benevolent about him, 
wdiich she had been far from anticipating, and which seemed to 
whisper to her, “ This man will be my friend.” 

The officers of the ship were then introduced to the party. 
The first mate, Mr. Marsden, a gentleman of thirty-five or so, and 
already inclining to baldness, tall, very polite, but rather prim. 

Mr. Redmayne, the second mate, a young fellow of five-and- 
twenty, but looking even younger, very handsome, but rather shy. 

Mr. Bates, the third mate, much older than the other two, a 
squat, powerfully -built man, marked with 'small- pox, and not 
looking like a gentleman at all. 

Mr. Doyle, the surgeon, a jovial, middle-aged Irishman, with 
eyes sparkling with good-humor, and a mouth which, even when 
not smiling, seemed always about to smile. 

At supper the little party was joined by one of the gentleman 
passengers — Mr. Ainsworth, a clergyman; a stout, pale, elderly 
man, with a face totally hairless, but with the expression of a 
sheep. Without an invitation, he favored the* company with a 
long, extempore grace, during the deliveiy of which Mr. Nor- 
bury’s face was a study. “ Who the deuce is he?” he whispered, 
indignantly, to the captain; “not one of the company’s chaplains, 
surely.” 

“ I think not; he is ^protege of the secretary. You know his 
leaning. I believe he is a missionary; an inoffensive man enough.” 

“But that is just what he isn’t,” put in Mr. Norbury; “he is 
most offensive. The idea of an uncovenanted minister volunteer- 
ing grace— and such a grace. ” 

“Just so. He did it at dinner. He calls it asking a blessing. 
I must take an opportunity of telling him that I am chaplain on 
board my own ship. He won’t do it again for some time, how- 
ever, if I am not mistaken. It is coming on to blow, and gentle- 
men of that complexion and habit of body— eh?” 


ON BOARD. 


31 


“I hope so, indeed,” said Mr. Norbury, piously. At present, 
at all events, Mr. Ainsworth was in possession of his health and 
full flow of conversation, which, however, he addressed mostly to 
the ladies. He gave his especial attention — as was right and 
proper — to the eldest of the three; but it was but indifferently 
reciprocated. Aunt Sophia’s mind was too much preoccupied 
with the novelty of her situation, her forebodings as to what was 
to happen when the ship began to move— for it was at present at 
anchor, and almost motionless — to listen to conversation, however 
edifying. Her attempts to do so were quite lamentable. 

“The whole question of the lost tribes,” Mr. Ainsworth was 
remarking, after a long dissertation on the subject,“is intensely 
interesting. What do you think, Miss Norbury?” 

“ No doubt. Do you think they were lost going out to India?” 
hazarded Aunt Sophia. 

Edith, compelled to smile in spite of her troubles, had to ex- 
plain that her relative was very nervous and apprehensive about 
the sea. 

It was the captain’s advice that the ladies should retire to their 
cabins before they began the voyage, “ What do you say, Mr. 
Doyle?” he inquired, referring to the scientific authority. 

“ I say ditto, sir,” returned the other, with a rich Irish accent. 
“I wish I could tell them, as the nurses tell the children, ‘Pret- 
ty dears, you will sleep without rocking.’ But as that’s impossi- 
ble, it’s better to sleep before the rocking begins.” 

Aunt Sophia rose immediately with a pale face to act upon 
the prescription at once, and Eleanor also withdrew to her cabin. 
Edith asked permission of the captain to go on deck. 

“The deck is yours, madam,” was the gallant reply," but I am 
afraid you will find us just for to-night in a sad state of con- 
fusion.” 

Edith had an idea that her uncle had made an objection, which 
was overruled. The captain gave her his arm up the cuddy 
stairs. Mr. Redmayne followed with rugs — Mr. Doyle with a 
footstool. Doubtless had not the first and third mates been on 
duty they would have also volunteered their services. In two 
minutes she found herself in a comfortable arm-chair on deck, 
watching the preparations for departure, and won for the mo- 
ment from the contemplation of her woes by the novelty and 
strangeness of the scene. There was a pilot on the poop, who 
roared out to the chief-mate what he had to say like a candidate 
on a platform bent on making himself heard by the very last 
man on the skirts of his audience ; the prim and polite chief- 
mate, transformed into an angry brawler, repeated his orders to 
the boatswain; and the boatswain, incensed, as it seemed, at re- 
ceiving them second-hand, addressed the same inflammatory lan- 
guage, but with even greater emphasis, to the crew. Then there 
was a shuffling of naked feet upon the deck, and a number of 
men seized each a bar of wood and stuck them into the capstan, 


32 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


and then standing between the spokes, and leaning upon them 
with heavy hands and brawny chests, seemed suddenly turned 
to stone. If an enchanter’s wand had been waved which had 
changed tumult to silence and action to tranquillity, the trans- 
formation could not have been more complete. Then, piercing 
the silence, came the shrill note of a fiddle, and keeping time with 
their feet to its air, the sailors began to stamp and tramp round 
the capstan, which with shriek on shriek protested against the 
outrage, till the anchor swung at the bows. Then the ropes be- 
gan to rattle and the great sails to flap, and fill and strain above, 
and the waves, as the huge ship cut her way through them, to 
swirl and hiss and foam below. 

Under any circumstances the girl’s mind would have been filled 
with the interest and excitement of the scene, which, even as it 
was, she could not watch unmoved; but when the tumult was 
over, and the big ship began to speed upon her way before the 
freshening breeze, and the “Fair Island,” looking doubly fair in 
the calm moonlight, to fade upon her sight, the thoughts which 
had been always present, like a dark undercurrent in a shallow 
lake, of what she was leaving behind her, began to gather strength 
and volume; her hands dropped on her lap and her eyes filled 
with tears. Had any one on board that teeming ship such cause 
for sorrow as she? Others, indeed, had parted with those dearest 
to them, but it was not for years; after the voyage out and home 
they would see them again; and in any case it was their business 
to be going out. But she had no business. She was going into 
unnecessary exile — the victim of mere cruelty and caprice. 

“ It is getting late, Edith; it is time you went to your cabin.” 
It was her uncle’s voice which thus addressed her, in cold and au- 
thoritative tones — more authoritative, nay, even dictatorial, she 
thought, than he had ever used to her. 

“Thank you; no, I prefer the deck at present.” Her spirit 
was roused. She had obeyed him in grave matters, and brought 
wretchedness upon herself in so doing; she was not going to sub- 
mit to petty tyranny. 

He removed the cigar he was smoking from his mouth, and 
looked at her attentively. She returned his glance with equal 
steadiness. 

“You do not seem to me to be in a right frame of mind,” he 
said. 

“ It is possible you may not be the best judge of that,” was her 
quiet reply. 

“ I am the best judge, at all events, of what is the best course, 
and the only course for you to take. Miss Edith, and that is — 
submission.” 

“Heaven knows I have submitted,” exclaimed the girl, with a 
gesture of despair — “ too far, too far.” 

“ In the letter,” he said, ignoring those last words of hers, “ but 
not in the spirit. I have watched you very narrowly since — since 


ON BOAED. 


33 


you have been in possession of my sentiments with regard to a 
certain subject, and I see you still hanker after the forbidden 
thing. Now pray understand, once and for all, that you will never 
get it. I may have had some difficulty— there is no harm in con- 
fessing it now — in making matters safe while we were on shore 
and in England. I could not well have locked you up, and your 
attractions might well have tempted your needy lover to some 
bold stroke.” 

“ He is a man of honor,” said Edith, haughtily. For the mo- 
ment she felt inclined to tell him that that very day would have 
given her her freedom but for that fact. 

Mr. Norbuiy shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Unhappily, he is also a man of straw, which is a fatal objec- 
tion to him. That you have seen the last of him is quite certain. 
I dare say you thought it strange that I objected to your maid 
coming with you. Shall I tell you the reason?” 

“ The matter is no longer of any consequence,” she answered, 
indifferently. “ I suppose it was for cheapness.” 

Under his shaggy eyebrows his eyes flashed fire. 

“That is an insult. You know very well that that is not my 
way; I have denied you nothing that money can purchase, un- 
less, indeed, the gentleman upon whom you are wasting your af- 
fections comes under that head.” 

She had been about to apologize to him for her. uncalled-for 
sarcasm, but that sneer on his part froze every impulse of concil- 
iation and left her marble. 

“ No, miss, I dismissed your maid because I knew that persons 
in her rank of life ignore all disparities in love-making — save that 
of years — and sympathize — ” 

“I do not take counsel of my lady’s-maid. Uncle Ernest,” in- 
terrupted the girl Avith spirit. 

“I am glad to hear it. But, at all CA^ents, her presence would 
have had associations for you v/hich Avould have been mischiev- 
ous. It Avas for that reason and for your sake that I left her be- 
hind. I exhort and entreat you now, for your own sake, to cease 
from vain regrets. The last straAV that bound you to that un- 
worthy young man has now, believe me, been severed.” 

“It Avill hold as long as life holds,” she answered, firmly. 

“I have been very patient Avitli you hitherto, Edith. I have 
made allowance for your inexperience and impulsive nature; but 
you may try me too far. I am your uncle, but remember that I 
am also your guardian.” 

“I know it Avell,” she ansAvered, bitterly. “You have taken 
advantage of your position to the uttermost.” 

“What do you mean?” he cried, fire again flashing from his 
eyes. “Do you dare to impute — ” he stopped, his passion ar- 
rested by her look of Avonder. * “It was very unpleasant to me to 
exert my authority,” he added, quietly, “ but I did my duty.” 

“And I mine,” she said. “ What more is it you ask of me?” 

3 


34 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“Mr. Layton’s letters— you have four of them, I know. I don’t 
want to read them, of course, but I must see them destroyed with 
my own eyes.” 

“ That you never shall. I will die first!” 

“Then you will die soon, for I will have them within twenty- 
four hours.” With that he turned on his heel and left her very 
terrified, but not subdued. She did not dislike him, perhaps, 
more than she had done of late, but she was more afraid of him. 
She had known that he had an iron hand, but she had never seen 
it without the velvet gl-ove before. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PASSENGER. 

Edith obeyed her uncle in one thing at once; she ran down to 
her cabin. Those letters he had spoken of were there; and though 
an hour ago sueh an idea would never have entered her mind, 
she thought him quite capable of possessing himself of them by 
fraud or even force. That she possessed some correspondence of 
her lover’s was natural enough for him to take for granted, but 
how had he come to know that she had had four letters — exactly 
four? Nobody knew it, as she had thought, except herself; no- 
body, to her knowledge, had even seen them. They were kept in 
a seeret place; she had often read them, it was true, but only 
when she was alone. She tried to think whether she had ever 
been interrupted in that oceupation. She had a vague idea that 
on one oceasion this had oeeurred, but she could not recall by 
whom. It must have been by one of three persons only — her maid 
Selina, her cousin Eleanor, or Aunt Sophia. Selina, she felt sure, 
would never have revealed the faet, for she sympathized heart 
and soul with her young mistress; so far her uncle had been 
right. Aunt Sophia was equally to be trusted, not because she 
was a partisan, for she was not; though she pitied her sorrows, 
she had serupulously avoided taking sides with her, and she was 
not one to make mischief. If anybody had told of her secret 
treasure it must, then, have been Eleanor. Her cousin had not 
behaved kindly or even justly in the matter of Mr. Layton, but 
she shrank from thinking her capable of meanness and treaehery. 
If it were so, her own position was even more deplorable than she 
had imagined it to be. It was terrible to be without friends, but 
how much worse would it be to be surrounded by enemies and 
spies! After all, the letters had come by post, and Mr. Norbury 
might possibly have taken note of their arrival; even that, how- 
ever, presupposed an amount of surveillance for which she was 
unprepared, and which alarmed her. 

Here were the letters safe enough. She took them from their 
hiding-place with the reverence of a priest who handles some frail 


THE PASSENGKK. 


35 


and precious relic, and read them over again in their order. The 
three first were full of happiness; the fourth, written after the 
happiness was threatened, was full of hope. In none of them 
was the writer importunate or pressing, as is the manner of lov- 
ers. At first, indeed, he had liesitated to accept her troth as bind- 
ing on herself. “You are so young and ignorant of the world,” 
he said, “that it seems taking an unfair advantage of you. I 
feel that I have no right to bind you with so long a chain. With 
me — who have nothing to lose in the interim— it is ditferent. 
Let me be bound, not you.” Some people may think that this 
was “ magnificent,” but it was not “love.” To Edith it seemed 
love of a rare and chivalrous sort; but she had declined his terms. 
He had warned her from the first that Mr. Norbury would not 
give his consent to their marriage, that at the best they must 
needs wait till she came of age, but that she was well content to 
wait for him. “I am yours, whether soon or late,” she wrote, 
and it was not in human nature that he should decline the sac- 
rifice. 

Then came the time in which the two next letters were written 
— hours of blissful content, days “when it was always afternoon ’’ 
— letters written and read in dream-land. Then the day when her 
uncle put his foot down to stamp love out — love which, like the 
sweet-smelling herb, yields only the more fragrance for being 
crushed— and after it and their "forced separation the fourth let- 
ter. It was this she held most precious, because it applied to her 
present position and formed the guide to her future conduct. 
“We are parted,” it said, “but only as water is parted by the 
hand. No power on earth can prevent our meeting again if only 
we are true to each other. Whatever happens, remember that ev- 
ery day brings you nearer to me and me nearer to you. You 
will do me the justice to say (to yourself) that I have never striven 
to set you against your uncle; I will not do it now, but in my 
opinion he will leave no stone unturned to effect his object. It 
is even possible that he will not always confine liimself to per- 
suasion to win you over to his way of thinking; the thought of 
his being severe or unkind to you makes me shudder, but I fear 
that he is capable of such a change of conduct. If I do him 
wrong I owe him an apology, and shall be rejoiced to make it.” 

He had not done him wrong. Her uncle’s behavior to her that 
evening, his voice, his manner, his threatening words, had proved 
her lover in the right; thanks to him, she had been prepared for 
this change, though even as it was it alarmed and shocked Jier, 
Doubtless if Charley had known of her guardian’s intention to 
carry her to India, his letter would have been more outspoken, 
but it was written previous to their knowledge of this plan, of 
which, indeed, they had had no suspicion until within a few days 
of its accomplishment. She had written to inform her lover of 
it, and doubtless, distrustful of any letter reaching her, his pres- 
ence that morning had been his reply. Even without it the let- 


36 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


ter she held in her hand would have strengthened and supported 
her under her present trial; for “faithful and true, living or 
dead,” was its burden throughout; but with his last words ring- 
ing in her ears, his last looks — apt illustration of that loving text 
— still visible to her mind’s eye, it seemed as though it would have 
sustained her under very martyrdom. Uncle Ernest had been 
wise — after his false lights— to endeavor to wrest this prop and 
stay from her— that dear handwriting would be a source from 
which she drew courage and content whenever she looked at it; 
and neither threats nor cajolery should ever induce her to part 
with it. 

In the place of concealment where she had hitherto kept the 
letters— a secret drawer in her desk — she had no longer any confi- 
dence, for she felt that her uncle would have no scruples in em- 
ploying any means to get possession of them. Where, then, in 
her cabin could she conceal them? She had read Edgar Poe’s 
story of “The Purloined Letter,” and remembered his direction 
that the most open place, as likely to be the least suspected, was 
the safest. In that case the envelope had been turned inside out 
and the missive left about for any chance comer to take up. She 
shrank, however, from that notion of the chance comer — in the 
shape of the stewardess, for example — whom idle curiosity might 
prompt to examine this treasure, and moreover there were four 
letters, and not one, to be hidden. She thought of disposing each 
in a secret place, so that if one or two should be stolen from her 
the others would be left; but how could she endure the loss of 
one or two? In the end she resolved to carry them about with 
her, and sewed them into her apparel — “all day long to fall and 
rise upon her balmy bosom, with not, alas! her laughter, but her 
sighs.” 

Then with a tolerably tranquil mind she sought her berth. She 
was one of those exceptional individuals who are born good sail- 
ors, and suffered no misery from the motion of the vessel. That 
Aunt Sophia in the next cabin was not so fortunate was made ap- 
parent to her by various groanings and complainings; the pre- 
scription of the Irish doctor of going to sleep early had not, it 
seemed, been by any means successful with her, probably because 
she had been unable to put it into practice. She could do her 
aunt no good, she knew, even if she could have visited her, which 
of course she could not do, but the idea of that good lady’s tort- 
ures made her feel very uncomfortable. Moreover, though not 
otherwise inconvenienced, the beating and bumping of the ship, 
and the other novel accompaniments to her situation, kept her 
awake for some time. At last she fell into a heavy slumber. 

In the dead of the night she awoke with that unaccountable 
suddenness and consciousness of something having happened 
with which we are all familiar. The wind and the sea had risen, 
and with shrieks and tumult unfamiliar to a landsman’s ear, but 
amid them there seemed to be, or rather to have been, a sound 


THE PASSEN-GER, 


37 


more recognizable and commonplace, as though some one had 
stumbled against an article of furniture in the cabin. Such a 
circumstance was impossible, since she had locked her door, and 
indeed one glance round the little room, dimly lighted from 
above, was sufficient to assure her that she was alone, and every- 
tliing around her as she had left it. No doubt it had been some 
sharp shock of the sea, which has innumerable ways of announ- 
cing its presence, from the gentle tap of the school-girl, who, stand- 
ing on tiptoe, can just lift the knocker, to the thundering sum- 
mons of the fireman. She must in future prepare herself for 
every description of disturbance. 

Nevertheless, she did not easily fall asleep again. She lay in 
that sort of half-dreamy state which rejects the present and the 
future, and concerns itself with the past only. She was once 
more in the old cathedral town in which she had spent most of 
her youth. She walked again with her father in the water mead- 
ows that surrounded it, and heard in the distance the soft, melan- 
choly chimes cleaving the summer air. She wandered alone in 
the cloisters, while the swelling anthem “shook the prophets 
blazoned on the panes” of the great eastern window; she knelt 
in the stately fane and heard the sweet voices of the choristers 
talking (as her childish fancy had painted them) with God. Was 
all that past and done with (she had just sense enough to won- 
der), or was it, perhaps, at the Judgment Day, to be all gone over 
again? What becomes of our lives when we have lived them? 
They cannot be surely as suits of clothes, which, having worn out, 
w’e discard and see no more of. Short as her existence had been, 
it had been divided, as most of our lives are, into different epochs. 
Her residence at her uncle’s house in town seemed not only a new 
existence, but the experience of another person. If, at least, she 
was the same person who had passed through both, her identity 
was not recognizable. Though she knew that the latter phase 
had been passed in the world and the former out of it, the latter 
seemed less real, more like playing at life than when she was a 
child and did play at it; though she saw so many more of her 
fellow-creatures in it, she felt more lonely. Her father had gone 
to heaven and left her, and there was no one to occupy his place. 
She seemed almost as in a strange land, where the people were kind 
to her in a certain superficial fashion, but it was not that native 
land, every flower of which she had known so well, and where 
by a very few she had been beloved. Scenes of fashion passed 
before her half-shut eyes— gay dresses, brilliantly lit rooms, and 
crowded companies. Then one man, tall and comely, less court- 
ly than some others, perhaps, but more gracious and tender. 
Again and again she saw him- then when he was not by she saw 
him. She was somehow no longer alone in the world. There 
was some one to care for her, some one to love her, as her father 
had done, though in another way. Then he, too, was threatened 
with death, or was it herself that was threatened? It was all one. 


38 


A PIUNCE OF THE BLOOD. 


There was cold and thick darkness all about her, when suddenly 
his voice was heard. 

She was broad awake in an instant. The light of morning, 
nay, of day, was flooding the little cabin. She knew in a mo- 
ment where she was, and recognized the present in all particulars. 
He was a hundred miles or so away from her, and the sea between 
them, and yet she had heard his voice. Something terrible, then, 
had happened to him. She had read of such things — how, in the 
moment of dissolution, the spirit of one who loves us is permitted 
for one fleeting instant to make its presence known to us, though 
far away, and in some vague manner to give its last farewell. 

Edith Norbury was not deficient in common-sense, but the per- 
spiration gathered on her brow as this idea occurred to her. The 
daylight could not quench the superstitious terror, nor the sounds 
of life and motion that now pervaded the ship drown the recol- 
lection of that beloved voice. What it had said she knew not, 
but it had spoken, and there was no mistaking those well-loved 
and familiar tones. The impression was so strong and vivid that 
it even removed the remembrance of the noise she had heard in 
the night, till she rose and began to dress. Then, indeed, it re- 
curred to her with redoubled strength and significance, for the 
four letters from her lover which she had sewn into her garment 
had, to her intense amazement, disappeared. At first she imag- 
ined herself to be the victim of some delusion of the senses. She 
had not remembered, perhaps, where she had put them aright, 
and had only dreamed of changing their place of security, but on 
examining the secret drawer with feverish haste, she found it, as 
she expected, empty. Then, again, it struck her that the agitation 
and excitement of her mind might have induced her to walk in 
her sleep, and unconsciously remove the articles on which her 
waking thoughts had dwelt with such intensity. But the closest 
search failed to find them ; they were gone. Her ears, then, had 
not deceived her; some one had entered her cabin in the night 
and stolen her treasures. Yet her door was locked, and the key 
still remained on the inside. As to the window, it was of course 
a mere bull’s-eye, and looked on the sea. The mystery was inex- 
plicable, and but for the noise she had heard, would perhaps 
have been associated in her mind with that equally mysterious 
voice; but as it was, what had happened was only too palpable. 
Whatever means had been adopted by the perpetrator, she had 
been robbed, and the sense of loss swallowed up her wonder at 
the means. AVhether her uncle had been the actual committer of 
the crime or not, though the fact of his being so would naturally 
have turned her dislike of him into disgust, it was clear to her that 
he was the real offender. Priceless as the letters were to her, none 
but himself could attach any value to them. That he did so, she 
had his own words in proof the night before, coupled with the as- 
surance that he meant to have them. The inference was clear 
and fair that he had got them now. 


THE TASSENGER. 


39 


As she stepped out of her cabin, intending to visit Aunt Sophia, 
she met the stewardess, who informed her that that lady had had 
a disturbed night (a very euphonious phrase, poor soul, for her 
actual experience), and had cost IMiss Eleanor one who had been 
in attendance upon her; the two ladies had therefore given her 
instructions that they were not to be disturbed. 

As it still wanted some time to the breakfast hour, Edith went 
up on deck, and took her seat where she had sat the previous 
night. A very different view now presented itself to her; the ship 
was out of sight of laud, and the wild water — for so it seemed to 
her, though there was but a slight breeze blowing — foamed and 
sparkled on all sides of her, while beyond lay the boundless blue. 
Under any other circumstances the lightness and freshness of 
the scene must needs have put life and spirit into her. But the 
face of nature, whether she smile or frown, affects us but little 
when the heart within us is heavy. We repay her callousness to 
our own sorrows with a like indifference. 

Presently her uncle came up to her. She looked up to him 
boldly and searchingly, but he did not shrink from her gaze. If 
he was conscious of having committed the baseness of which she 
suspected him, he had schooled himself to conceal it. 

“ I hope you have slept well, Edith?” he said, with a fleeting 
smile. “But I need not ask; you look as fresh as a daisy. Your 
aunt and cousin, I hear, have been by no means so fortunate.” 
His tone was natural enough, and if his manner was a little embar- 
rassed, so it had always been in these later days after their dis- 
agreement about Mr. Layton: if there was anything suspicious 
about his address, it was that he talked rather more quickly chan 
usual, without giving her time to reply. 

“ I am quite well, thank you,” she said, coldly. 

“That’s well. 1 hope the sea-breezes have given you a good 
appetite. There is the gong for breakfast; let me give you my 
arm to the cuddy.” 

The ship Avas pitching sufficiently to make the refusal of his 
offer a positive rudeness, but as she laid her hand upon his arm, 
her fingers seemed to shrink from grasping it. If he had not 
clasped her close with his elbow she would have fallen. 

“Trust to me, who have my sea-legs on,” he said, as he led her 
to the companion, where she gladly exchanged her hold of him 
for that of the baluster. 

“Come,” said the captain, speaking in his cheery voice from 
the breakfast-table, “ here is one of our ladies, at least. Good- 
morning, Miss Norbury. You know every one here, I think, save 
the latest addition to our company. Mr. Charles Layton, Miss 
Edith Norbury.”' Her lover, who was sitting at the table with 
the rest, rose up to greet her. 

She was dimly conscious of hearing a frightful execration from 
her uncle, a high-pitched remonstrance from the captain, and then 
the cabin swam round with her, and she remembered no more. 


40 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE ACCUSATION. 

“It often takes them this way wlien it doesn’t the other. No 
one, ranch less a fragile and delicate young creature like this, can 
go to sea for the first time without paying her fooling in meal or 
in malt.” 

These were the words, uttered in an Hibernian accent, soft and 
strong (like the best Irish whiskey), which fell upon Edith’s ears 
as she regained consciousness. But it was not till afterwards, 
though she felt that theywvere kindl}^ meant, that she had a clear 
perception of their motive and significance. Mr. Doyle knew well 
enough that her indisposition had been caused by some mental 
shock (at the nature of which he could only make a shrewd guess), 
and he had done his best to conceal the fact from the sj)ectators. 
Fortunately, though his success in deceiving them was doubtful, 
they were, as it happened, only five in number. Besides the cap 
tain and Mr. Bates, and the involuntary cause of the catastrophe, 
Mr. Charles Layton himself, there was no one as yet at tlie break 
fast-table. Save an interchange of looks, which however had 
been expressive enough — Mr. Norbury had glared at Mr. Layton 
and then at the captain, like a tiger who cannot make up his 
mind which of two victims to devour first, to which the captain 
had replied with indignant astonishment, and the 3'oung barrister 
with quiet scorn— nolhing had passed in the mean time between 
them. Edith’s faintingfit, if so short a seizure could be so called, 
had only lasted a few seconds, perhaps there was an inner con- 
sciousness of her lover’s presence, even in that overturn of mind, 
which acted as a restorative. 

“If you went to your cabin and laid down a bit?” continued 
Mr. Doyle, tentatively. 

“ Thank you, no ; I am quite well now; I would rather stay 
where I am,” said Edith, with a forced smile. 

“Quite right; it’s the breakfast that’s the thing for her,” ob- 
served the accommodating doctor. 

Her uncle was about to object, but the captain interposed in a 
tone of authority, 

“ It is the doctor who is master in a case of this kind, Mr. Nor- 
bury, and we must have no mutiny on board the Ganges, if you 
please.” 

It was only the natural chivalry of a disposition which alwaj'^s 
leaned towards the weaker side and the ladies which had dic- 
tated this speech; but to Mr. Norbury’s ear it only corroborated 
the conviction that the whole affair had been planned before- 
hand between the captain and Mr. Layton. He had been bribed 


THE ACCUSATION. 


41 


to take “that adventurer” out to India for the express purpose 
of prosecuting his forbidden suit. If the pilot had not left — and 
Layton had doubtless delayed his own appearance till he had 
done so, for that very reason — he would have put niece and 
daughter into his boat and returned to England; but as it was, 
he felt that for the time he was powerless. The captain was 
master of the situation, and until they reached Calcutta could 
hardly be dismissed from the company’s service for conspiracy. 

Nor could Edith be locked up, with a sentry at the door of her 
cabin with orders to shoot any one who attempted to communi- 
cate with her without her uncle’s permission. Language could 
not have expressed his fury in any case, but the necessity which 
prudence enjoined on him to keep silence seemed almost danger- 
ous to life. He took his seat at the table half-suffocated with 
rage and resentment, while the captain pressed the breakfast dain- 
ties on Edith’s attention, and Mr. Charles Layton sipped his tea. 
There are certain explosives on which a change of temperature 
has a very disastrous effect, and the mere contemplation of the 
young barrister’s coolness drove Mr. Norbury’s temper, which 
was at a white heat, to the verge of bursting. 

The politest of bows and the gravest of smiles had been all the 
acknowledgment which Layton had given of Edith’s presence. 
There had been only just so much of recognition in it as, to one 
w'ho knew the position in which he stood with reference to her be- 
longings, would have seemed becoming. He had met tier before, 
it seemed, but not under circumstances to encourage familiarity. 
Happily for their strained relations — a phrase which fell far short 
of describing the state of tension of Mr. Norbury’s mind — Mr. 
Ainsworth now made his appearance, and knowing nothing of 
what had happened, relieved the strain by commonplace inquiries. 
How had Miss Norbury passed her first night on board ship? 
How were the other ladies? How was Mr. Layton himself, who 
had showm such suspicious prudence in his early retirement the 
previous evening? “Judging by the cheerfulness of your voice 
this morning, which I heard^^before I was stirring, myself,” he 
concluded, “ I conjecture your fears were groundless.” 

Up to that moment Edith had scarcely understood one word of 
wdiat had been addressed to her, and had replied to everything 
with the accurate but sententious brevity of an automaton ; but 
with this reference to her lover, intelligence, and with it recollec- 
tion, returned to her. The events of the previous night, with 
what she had thought was the hallucination of the morning, the 
hearing of Charley’s voice, at once returned to her. 

So far, then, from its having been the last farewell of his de- 
parting spirit, it was his first “ good-raovrow ” on the deep. In- 
stead of being parted from her, he had been reunited to her. 
What matter though they had stolen those dear memorials of 
him from their hiding-place, since he was here in person and 
needed no reminder! Her soul was so filled with gratitude that 


42 


A nilNCE OF THE ELOOD. 


it liad no room for wonder. Here was her lover under the same 
roof, not as on laud in a house from which he could be ejected; 
not as a guest, hut as a tenant, with equal rights with tliose of 
her uncle himself— and for the moment she was contented with 
that assurance without seeking to know how it had all come to 
pass. 

It is one of the few advantages that breakfast on shipboard 
possesses over the same meal on shore, that people drop in and 
out without ceremony, and Edith found no difficulty in making 
her exit from the cuddy alone and resuming her old position on 
deck. Neither her uncle nor her lover followed her, much, no 
doubt, as each would have liked to have done so, and held pri- 
vate converse with her, though of a very different kind. The 
one, it was easy to guess, was yearning to pour out his heart 
before her, while the other was scarcely less impatient to give 
her a piece of his mind. Though wholly innocent of any such 
knowledge, she could not conceal from herself that Mr, Norbury 
might naturally enough conclude that she had been cognizant of 
Mr. Layton’s being on board the Ganges, and have good ground 
for resentment on that account. The idea of such subtlety and 
dissimulation being imputed to her would, under other circum- 
stances, have distressed her greatly; but her uncle’s behavior to 
her on the previous evening, and especially that theft of the let- 
ters, which it was impossible not to lay at his door, had aroused 
her just indignation. Without provocation, and believing her to 
be utterly defenceless and in his power, he had commenced hos- 
tilities against her ; and she would perhaps have felt little com- 
punction even if by any act of her own she had secured to her- 
self the presence of this earnest and devoted ally. Her only 
uneasiness as to the matter was as respected Aunt Sophia, whose 
good opinion she valued much; for the moment, however, it was 
impossible to clear herself in that good lady’s eyes; in those of 
her cousin she was less solicitous to do so— first, because, after 
what had passed, any mention to her of Mr. Layton would have 
been distasteful; and, secondly, because she had a shrewd suspi- 
cion that Eleanor would not be willing to be convinced. 

Though she had hitherto submitted herself so obediently to 
her uncle’s will, Edith had plenty of spirit, and it was now thor- 
oughly aroused. Like a player who thinks he has the game for 
certain, her uncle had shown his cards too soon, and had- even 
had the imprudence to let her know that he would stick at noth- 
ing in the means he took to win with them. As she sat so deep 
in thought that the stir and movement in the ship above and 
around her was almost unheard, she suddenly heard her uncle’s 
voice. It was not addressing her, nor was he to be seen, so that 
at first it gave her no little alarm ; but presently she perceived 
that the sound came through a cabin skylight close beside her. 
The tones were low, and full of suppressed passion, but so dis- 
tinct that every word was audible. If the idea that she was 


THE ACCUSATION-. 


43 


playing the involuntary part of eavesdropper had occurred to 
Edith, which, truth to say, it did not, so intensely was her in- 
terest excited by what was going on that she could not have 
stirred from her place. Her limbs had suddenly become rigid; 
yet she could hardly have likened herself to a statue, for a statue 
has many organs, whereas she was all ear, 

“ And now, sir, that we are alone together,” said Mr. Norbury, 
“perhaps you may consider that the time has come for an ex- 
planation of your presence here.” 

“Indeed,” replied a quiet voice she knew, “I am not aware 
that any such is owed you, Mr. Norbury.” 

“I am not one to be trifled with, Mr. Layton, I do assure you,” 
was the fierce rejoinder, “By whatever disgraceful trick you 
have obtained a passage by this ship — ” 

“You will keep a civil tongue in your head, or you will leave 
my cabin,” interrupted a voice Edith did not know. Sharp, stern, 
and incisive, it seemed to cut the other’s speech as with a knife. 
“You may bully your clerks in Leadenhall Street, Mr. Norbury, 
and you may bully your niggers in Hindustan, but you will not 
bully me. Let that be understood between us, if you please, if 
we are to speak together at all.” There was silence for a moment 
or two, and then, as if some gesture of conciliation had been made 
by his adversary, the young man resumed, in his ordinary voice, 
“ As for my presence here, I might be well content to refer you 
to the captain for its cause; but, not to be discourteous, I will say 
at once that I am in Government employment on special service,” 

“ I thought you were a barrister.” 

“Just so; my mission is a professional one.” 

“ Your practice is so extensive that it extends to India?” 

“ It may do so, though there are circumstances which may com- 
pel me to disembark at the Cape, ” 

“In other words, you intend to dog the footsteps of my niece 
wherever she goes?” 

Then came the short, sharp voice again. 

“Be so kind as to remember what I have just said. I will 
endure no impertinence from any man.” 

“Impertinence! Surely it is pertinent enough that I should 
make inquiries of your intentions with regard to a young lady of 
whom I am the sole guardian and the uncle.” 

“A little more than kin and less than kind,” was the dry reply. 
“Yes, you have authority over her, it is certain, for you have 
pushed it to its utmost limits. You have none, however,_over 
me. I am here on my own business.” 

“ That is a— an evasion. If she were not on board the Ganges 
you would never have taken passage in her.” 

“You have no right to discuss motive. I have no objection, 
however, to acknowledge that so far you are correct. Miss Edith 
Norbury has promised to be my wife.” 

“And I have absolutely forbidden her to be so.” 


44 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“Nay, that is beyond your powers. You may have forbidden 
her to marry me within a certain period, after which she becomes 
her own mistress. It is a mere matter of time.” 

“And in the me'an while you do not think it dishonorable to 
persuade her to set my authority at defiance and to arrange with 
you a scheme — whether a modest and maidenly one is a ques- 
tion — ” 

“ Stop, sir !” thundered the other. “Your opinion upon that 
matter, valuable as it doubtless would be when one considers the 
purity of its source, is uncalled for. Your niece, 1 may say at 
once, until she saw me just now at the breakfast-table was no 
more aware than yourself of my presence on board the Gancjes.” 

]\Ir. Norbury gave a grunt of sullen acquiescence. He had 
probably already come to the conclusion that his niece’s emotion 
on beholding her lover could hardly have been feigned; but it was 
not in his nature when his mask was off, as it was at present, to 
acknowledge anything graciously. 

“Whether she was aware of it or not,” he said, “you will gain 
nothing by your audacity, sir, while the object — the innocent 
object, as you would have me believe— of your persecution will 
suffer for it. I shall keep my niece in the strictest seclusion 
throughout the voyage.” 

There was a pause, which the listener’s imagination filled up 
aright; the menace had strained the leash in which Layton had 
held his temper to its utmost limit. 

“You had best not threaten me, Mr. Norbury,” he replied, 
steadily, “and still less her, or I shall have to speak some very 
plain truths to you,” 

“ I fear no truth that you or any other man can speak, sir. It 
is you who, if you knew the truth regarding my niece, would have 
cause for regret. You are not playing for so high a stake as you 
imagine, sir. It is true that up to this time I "have objected to 
your suit mainly on the ground of inequality of position. I 
wished to put the matter in its least offensive form. You smile 
incredulously, but, on my honor, what I am about to state is the 
simple fact. Under no circumstances, I admit, would I have 
sanctioned your engagement; the step you have taken in thrust- 
ing your undesii-ed presence upon us here was not necessary to 
make me resolute upon that point; but since you have chosen 
to do so it may save you more labor in vain to inform you that 
rumor has much overstated my niece’s fortune.” 

“As to that, sir, her fortune is no attraction to me; but I am 
quite aware, or at all events have a shrewd suspicion, that it is 
not what it was when it first came into 3mur hands.” 

There was a crash of a chair thrown violently to the ground by 
the sudden rising of the sitter. 

“What! Do you dare to accuse me of misappropriation of 
her property?” 

“ I accuse you of nothing. Like jmurself, I have no desire to 


THE ACCUSATION. 


45 


be offensive. Let us suppose there has been a fall in the value 
of the securities you held in trust for her. Under such circum- 
stances it occurs to you that to avoid — well, I will not say un- 
pleasant inquiries, but — grumblings, it would be better that her 
husband should not be a man of business, certainly not a lawyer 
like myself. Upon the whole, it strikes you as a good plan to 
take her out to India — in the first place, to get rid of me; in the 
second, to get her married to somebody else — not necessarily a 
nabob — I acquit you of any intention of disposing of her to the 
highest bidder — but to some one who will be satisfied, as to mon- 
ey matters, with the word of a gentleman and a man of honor.” 

“ Pray go on, sir. It is fortunate for you that there is no wit- 
ness here.” 

“ It is fortunate for one of us, no doubt, Mr. Norbury. As w^e 
are quite alone, however, it is possible to suggest to you that un- 
der the circumstances, from your own point of view, I may not 
be so bad a husband for your niece after all.” 

“ I see. After having made the most libellous and infamous 
charges wdiicli it is possible for you to invent, you are taking 
their proof for granted in order that you may compound a felony.” 

“That is very neatly put. My suggestion, I admit, is quite 
open to that interpretation. If I had not looked at the matter 
all round I should be strongly inclined to take that very view of 
it raj^self. But I am thinking solely of what is best to be done 
to insure the happiness of your niece. Under any circumstances 
I fear I should never get her to prosecute you. Motives and feel- 
ings into which you are utterly unable to enter, and for which, I 
confess, in this particular case I myself have but little sympathy, 
will plead for you to gain your cause. As her husband, it is true, 
I could compel the law to take its course, but I. should put no such 
compulsion upon her. I shall tell her the truth. Yes, though I 
would gladly spare her what I know would give her unspeakable 
pain, I cannot keep her in ignorance of what has happened. I 
cannot be a party to your misbehavior, even for her sake; but I 
give you my word that, unless at her own instigation, I will take 
no steps to right her or to punish her wrong-doer. All this, how- 
ever, on concTition that you lay the whole extent of your malver- 
sations before her and me, and consent to our immediate mar- 
riage.” 

“ A very pretty bargain for a gentleman and a barrister-at-law 
to propose, upon my soul!” cried the other, in a voice that, hoarse 
with fear and rage, endeavored to simulate contempt. 

“ No, Mr. Norbury, it is not pretty. It is a very ugly bargain, 
I admit, and the uglier the more we contemplate it. But upon 
the whole, and looking, I repeat, to your niece's interests only, one 
may say of it, though bad, that bad’s the best.” 

There was again a pause, longer than those which had preceded 
it. Edith’s ear was straining for her uncle’s reply. The propo- 
sition of her lover had commended itself to her without any 


46 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


drawbacks. Let Mr. Norbury keep her money, if he had really 
been so wicked as to take it; should he but consent to their mar- 
riage she would forgive him freely. It had not given her much 
pain, as Layton had supposed it would have done, to learn that 
she had been robbed of her property by the very hand that should 
have protected it. It was not like the revelation of a baseness in 
one in whom we have reposed confidence, much less loved. All 
respect for her uncle had long died within her. Nothing re- 
mained but a certain sentimental regard for the authority which 
had been delegated to him. One would have thought that under 
the circumstances that, too, would have died, since it was plain 
that the authority in question had, as it were, been obtained un- 
der false pretences— that is, upon the understanding that the del- 
egate had been a just and honest man. Yet it was not so. Our 
habits of thought are not like the garments which we readily ex- 
change for others as the temperature dictates. This man was 
still her uncle and her guardian, and his consent to her lover’s 
proposal, if not so absolutely essential as it had seemed some hours 
ago, was a matter at least most expedient and desirable. ]\Iore- 
over, though she was almost certain that Layton’s accusations — 
for such, of course, they were, whatever thin disguise he had 
thrown over them — were well grounded, she was not quite sure of 
it, and Mr. Norbury’s long-delayed rejoinder enlarged the chink 
of doubt. 

“ If I have let you say your say with unchecked tongue, Mr. 
Layton,” he presently replied, in quiet, resolute tones, “it was 
only thoroughly to understand the nature of the man with whom 
I had to deal. You have shown yourself as venomous as you are 
unprincipled. I despise your insinuations and defy you; and I 
will take such measures, be assured, as will make all your pains 
and plans to thrust yourself upon my niece’s society on board 
this ship unprofitable.” 

“And why not afterwards?” was the contemptuous reply. 
“ Why was there any need to bring her here at all, when the law 
would have protected her at home? When a young lady of fort- 
une is in danger of persecution from an ‘ adventurer,’ as you have 
been pleased to term me, there is a very certain way of putting 
her out of reach. Why did you not make your niece a ward in 
Chancery? I will tell you— because, knowing what you had done, 
and suspecting that others knew it, you did not dare invoke the 
law.” 

“That is enough, sir; I have done with you. If you persist in 
your infamous pursuit of my ward the consequences will be on 
your own head. I am not one to threaten in vain. When I meet 
an adder, I avoid it if I can; but if I cannot avoid it—” 

“Just sc; admitting, for the sake of argument, that I am inver- 
tebrate,” interrupted Layton, scornfully, as the other hesitated, 
“ what then?” 

“ Why, then I set my heel upon it!” 


THE THIEF. 


47 


There Avas a contemptuous laugh, and then the cabin door 
slammed; the interview between these two unflinching antago- 
nists was over. 


CPIAPTER VII. 

THE THIEF. 

Upon the whole, though it troubled her exceedingly, it was an 
advantage to Edith to have overheard that terrible talk. One of 
the things that gentlewomen (for the women of the lower ranks 
know it, alas! only too well) can never understand is, that men of 
their own class can be absolute scoundrels. Even men who do 
not know the world are apt to believe that what are called the 
criminal classes are separated by some almost impassable gulf 
from the members of their own society and acquaintance. Save 
as regards the actual commission of crime, this is by no means 
the case. There are many gentlemen of fashion, and still more of 
good commercial position, who have all the materials for crimi- 
nality in their dispositions, only, fortunately for them, the tempta- 
tion is very rarely sufficient to make them overstep the line of 
actual delinquency. The hard employer, the mean millionaire, 
and the unprincipled rake are in many cases as ripe for Newgate, 
and much more deserving of it, than the rascal in rags who steals; 
it is only because it is their interest that they are apparently 
ranged on the side of honesty. We probably meet every day on 
equal footing, and exchange pleasant words of greeting, with men 
who are quite capable of murder if the thing was highly advan- 
tageous to them, and could be done without risk. Of the desper- 
ate wickedness of some human hearts, the ordinary easy-going 
folks, who fortunately form the majority of us, have, I am satis- 
fied, no idea. They cannot understand how a gentleman in broad- 
cloth can be a ruffian, or an educated person on a level with the 
inhuman cur who skins cats alive, not from the lust of greed, but 
from that worst lust of all, the love of cruelty. Only now and 
then, in moments of unguarded talk, do we catch lurid gleams of 
the real nature of such men, but the baleful fires are there under 
the smooth clay. Women never see the least glimpse of them. 
“I am quite sure he could never do such a thing” would be their 
calm rejoinder to any imputation of gross baseness (so long as it 
was not in connection with their own sex) made against any man 
of their own acquaintance; you might as well try to persuade 
them that he was a black man. 

Even the information Edith had gathered from Layton’s accu- 
sations (which she now believed to be well founded) did not con- 
vince her, as it would have convinced a man, that her uncle was 
a scoundrel. Her kinship with him, nay, even her father’s trust 
in him, misplaced as she felt it to have been, fought against such 
utter condemnation. She pictured him as reckless, and even un- 


48 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


scrupulous, but hardly as having robbed her; or perhaps she did 
even think that, but with the slight store that one of her age and 
sex almost always does put upon mere money when it is her own, 
she minimized the crime till it was hardly more tlian an indiscre- 
tion. What gave her a far worse opinion of her uncle, and put 
her much more on her guard against him, was the threat ex- 
pressed in his parting speech to her lover, “When I meet an 
adder, I avoid it if I can; if not, I set my foot upon it,” 

The tone in which those words were delivered still rang in her 
ears, and she felt that they meant mischief. Being what she was, 
she had a hesitation in saying to herself, “ He will stick at noth- 
ing — nothing,” but that was the tendency of her thought. So 
far, then, she was advantaged by what she had heard; for to be 
forewarned is to be forearmed. Though her fears fell far short 
of what they would have been had she understood the unscrupu- 
lous nature of the man with wliom she had to deal, they made 
her look forward to her first meeting with her uncle with a shud- 
der, She had, it is true, been absolved by her lover from all 
complicity in his scheme for becoming the companion of her voy- 
age, But knowing what had passed between the two men, she 
could understand Mr, Norbury’s feelings towards her would be 
far more hostile than they had hitherto been. It was a great re- 
lief to her, therefore, when, in place of lier uncle, whom she had 
expected, she presently saw Aunt Sophia making her devious 
way towards her on the arm of the doctor. 

“ I’ve persuaded your aunt to come up on deck and get a breath 
of fresh air,” explained Mr. Doyle, as he led his companion to a 
chair contiguous to Edith’s; “there’s nothing like trying your 
sea-legs early.” 

As in the case of the legs of childhood, it is possible, however, 
to try them too early, and poor Aunt Sophia staggered into her 
chair as though those limbs had not only been bandy, but bone- 
less. 

“ Oh, my dear,” she moaned, complainingly, “what a dreadful 
thing is shipboard! If I could have foreseen one-tenth of the 
miseries it was to entail upon me, no persuasions of your uncle 
Ernest should have induced me to accompany them. " If I must 
have gone to India, I would rather have ridden on the top of an 
omnibus the whole way by the overland route.” 

Wretched as she was, Edith could not but smile at the alterna- 
tive of travel thus presented to her. “But, my dear aunt, you 
will soon get over the motion, bad as the pitching and tossing 
seems to you at first.” 

“ It is not that,” put in Aunt Sophia, with unwonted irritation, 
“though I shall certainly never get used to having my heels 
higher than my head every other moment. It is the sinking, the 
terrible down, down, down-dropping, which is so detestable. It 
seems a perfect miracle how we ever come up again, and I almost 
wish we didn’t.” 


THE THIEF. 


49 


“My poor dear," said Edith, coaxingly, “She will laugh at 
all tliat, will she not. Mr. Doyle, in a few days?” 

“ She’ll think it one of the finest jokes that ever was cracked,” 
corroborated the gentleman appealed to. 

“Cracked!” exclaimed Aunt Sophia, turning upon the aston- 
ished surgeon with angry vehemence;” you must be cracked your- 
self to see any joke in such horrors. It is not only physical pain 
that they engender, they poison the whole moral system. I pro- 
test I don’t care sixpence what becomes, not only of myself, but 
of all that used to be near and dear to me. They have had just 
the same effect upon my brother Ernest. He looks as though he 
could eat one, and throws his words at one as if they were bones 
to a dog.” 

The surgeon had strolled away at the mention of Uncle Ernest, 
rightly concluding that if Aunt Sophia had not been “put out” 
by her sufferings, she would not have been so frank in his pres- 
ence in alluding to her respected relative. Still, though she knew 
they were alone together, Edith shrank from speaking to her com- 
panion of her guardian. 

“I am afraid you have had a most unpleasant night’s rest,” 
she said, evasively. 

“ Rest? People don’t rest at sea — at least, not people who are — 
Oh, good gracious! now we are going down again. My dear, I 
seem hardly to have had one wink of sleep.” 

“I should have come and seen how you were this morning, 
had I been permitted to do so, but I was told that you did not 
wish to be disturbed.” 

“My dear, I never expressed any such wish. I was not in a 
condition to harbor a wish. I must say Eleanor was very kind, 
and looked in upon me more than once during the night.” 

Aunt Sophia’s tone was significant. It implied some astonish- 
ment at the kind behavior of her elder niece, and also some sug- 
gestion of neglect on the part of the younger. 

“But your cabin door was locked, for 1 tried the handle, though 
very softly, so as not to disturb you, before I went to bed,” ob- 
served Edith. 

“ Oh, I don’t complain of you, my dear, far from it; and, more- 
over, you could have done nothing for me, even if you had come; 
but as for the door being locked, our three cabins all communicate 
with one another, you know; the panel of each partition slips 
back. Did not the stewardess tell you that?” 

Edith had looked up with amazement. It was clear to Jier 
now how her cabin had been entered during the night, and only 
too clear whose was the hand that had deprived her of her pre- 
cious treasures. It must have been that of her cousin Eleanor. 

“No, I did not know it,” she answered with effort, “ or I should 
have certainly come to you as my cousin did.” 

“ I am sure you w'ould; but, as I have said, it would have been 
no good. ‘ When lovely woman stoops to follj'^ ’ — no, of course 
4 


50 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


I don’t mean that; but when one is so mad as to go to sea, there 
is no remedy for the consequences. No one can help one, and 
one can’t help one’s self, Nelly meant to be very careful, no 
doubt, but, coming in and out to look after me, she made so much 
noise that she woke me out of the little sleep I had; indeed, but 
that she assured me to the contrary, I thought that she had slid 
back the partition and gone in to you. How pale you look, Edith ! 
I hope you are not feeling as I do. Everything seems to swim 
about except the ship ; there it is, sinking again ! oh dear, oh 
dear!” 

Edith, who felt that Aunt Sophia’s sufferings must have been 
severe, indeed, to have engendered this complaining and almost 
bitter spirit in one ordinarily so full of the milk of human kind- 
ness, strove her best to be sympathetic ; but the sense of her 
cousin’s treachery, the conviction that she was playing into her 
father’s hands in so unworthy a manner, depressed her exceed- 
ingly. If her lover had not come to her rescue, how terrible 
would have been her position between two foes who should have 
been her nearest friends, and with none but poor Aunt Sophia to 
lean upon! What a pair of unscrupulous enemies, too, dear 
Charley had made for himself by his loving scheme! 

“ There are worse things than sea-sickness, dear Aunt Sophia,” 
she murmured, in the anguish of her soul, 

“That I deny,” was the irritable rejoinder, “If you only 
knew what it was you wouldn’t say so. In my case it produces 
simple prostration; and because I’m quiet and don’t complain, 
you think little of it. But wait till you see your uncle. He is 
naturally, perhaps, rather a bilious subject, and its effect on him 
is really most deplorable. Talk of temper! There is the less 
cause for him too, for whereas we poor women are among 
strangers, he has unexpectedly found an old friend on board.” 

“A friend?” said Edith, scarcely able to believe her ears, for 
her mind at once reverted to her lover. “ Did he say a friend?” 

“ Yes, he did; though indeed I rather wondered at it, consider- 
ing the difference in their positions; the third mate, it seems, is 
a former acquaintance of his. I came upon them talking in the 
cuddy. ‘I tiud Mr. Bates is an old friend of mine,’ he said, as if 
in explanation of their familiarity. Then he said, ‘We are dis- 
cussing old times,’ as much as to say my company was not 
wanted, and in a tone that was sharp enough to cut one’s nose off. 
If it had not been for dear Dr. Doyle— though I don’t see the use 
of a doctor on board ship, unless he can cure sea-sickness — I could 
never have climbed what they call the companion-ladder, because 
I suppose no one can get up it alone. It’s hard,” added Aunt 
Sophia, with a little snuffle, “ to be so snapped at, when one feels 
on the verge of the grave.” 

“Uncle Ernest is very angry,” explained Edith, “because he 
has discovered that Charley is on board.” 

“Charley? Mr. Layton? Cood heavens!” The good lady’s 


THE THIEF. 


51 


excitement was so intense that for the moment she forgot her 
woes. “ Has he hid himself in the hold as a stovvawa}'", or what?” 

“Of course not,” returned Edith, with dignity; “he is a pas- 
senger, which he has as much right to be as you or I!” 

“ Oh, my dear, pray don’t misunderstand me. I’m sure I wish 
he had the ship to himself, as far as that goes. He should have 
my place, I’m sure, and welcome. Only, how very amazing it is 
that he should be here. I call it tremendous! It didn’t astonish 
you so much, I suppose,” she added with simplicity. 

“Yes, it did; I knew nothing whatever of his intention.” 

“ Your uncle Ernest will never believe that,” said Aunt Sophia, 
gravely. “ Oh dear, oh dear! no wonder he looked black. This 
is beyond everything I have ever apprehended. It is like being 
taken by pirates.” 

“ I am much obliged to you for the compliment.” 

“No, no, I don’t mean that; it is a parallel case, of course, ex- 
cept in the unexpectedness of the calamity — the shock.” 

“ I don’t think it is a calamity at all.” 

“ Oh, my goodness! but what will your uncle think? Mr. Lay- 
ton on board the Ganges! Well, thank Heaven for one thing, 
we shall now get out at the Cape.” 

“ Then Mr. Layton Avill get out too?” 

“By all means,” gasped Aunt Sophia, with a sigh of relief; 
“then perhaps we sliall all return by caravan or something. I 
had rather come back on a camel through the desert than risk 
another voyage. Well, what you have told me explains, if it does 
uot excuse, your uncle’s behavior, which is some comfort.” 

“I am sorry my uncle is so angry,” replied Edith, with more 
indifference perhaps than she really felt; “but, as I have said, 
Mr. Layton has a perfect right to be here; and even if he had uot 
I had no hand in bringing him.” 

Aunt Sophia shook her head in a manner to imply that it was 
a very serious business in any case. 

“ There is Eleanor, too,” she murmured presently as if to her- 
self, “ she will be in a pretty state.” 

“ What has Eleanor to do with it? What right has my cousin 
to meddle with my affairs?” inquired Edith. The thought of 
how she had already meddled with them, and so treacherously 
and inexcusably, brought the color into her cheeks. 

“ Quite true, my dear, quite true,” answered the other, hurried- 
ly ; “but you know what Eleanor is, and how violent in her 
prejudices.” 

“And how unscrupulous in acting on them,” put in Edith, 
bitterly. “Yes, I know all that.” 

“For mercy’s sake, my darling, hush !” cried Aunt Sophia, in ter- 
rified tones. “ She isn’t ill a bit ” (this with a grudging emphasis), 
“and may be up-stairs, or whatever they call it, at any moment.” 

“ Let her come!” cried Edith, giving reins to her passionate in- 
dignation — “ let her coine. I never was afraid of thieves,” 


52 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WITH HER MASK OFF. 

That last observation of Edith’s, “I never was afraid of 
thieves,” was, of coarse, a dark saying to Aunt Sophia. . She 
knew, indeed, that her niece did not suffer from those nervous 
terrors which seized herself of nights with respect to possible 
depredators, but she did not understand Iier allusion to the fact 
on the present occasion. It was obvious by her look of wild sur- 
prise that she had not the least reason for supposing it could 
have any reference to Eleanor; yet the appearance of her elder 
niece at that moment seemed to suggest some sort of association 
with it, and filled her with vague alarm. 

“You look very white and shivery still. Aunt Sophia,” re- 
marked the new-comer as she took iier seat; then, with a nod 
and a cold smile addressed to her cousin, she added, “ You, Edith, 
on the contrary, it seems, may be congratulated upon being a 
good sailor.” 

Eleanor was never demonstrative, and the relations between 
the cousins of late had been such that no endearment, even of the 
conventional kind, had ever passed between them; but at meet- 
ing and parting it had hitherto been their custom to shake hands. 
It seemed to Edith that, in dispensing with this ceremony, Elea- 
nor was either making a declaration of war, or that, believing 
the other suspected her of having stolen her treasured letters, she 
was unwilling to run the risk of having her advances rejected. 
Her tone, too, had something of tentativeness in it which corrobo- 
rated this latter view. 

.“I have suffered nothing from the motion of the ship,” re- 
turned Edith, dryly. There was a significance in her words 
which implied that she had, however, something else to complain 
of, but Eleanor made haste to ignore it. 

“You have not had much experience, however, as yet,” she 
replied; “this is nothing to what we shall meet with round the 
Cape and afterwards.” 

It was a characteristic speech in any case, but especially so if 
Edith’s surmise was correct, since the ill-nature of her cousin’s 
disposition thus showed itself notwithstanding it was her obvious 
interest to be conciliatory, or at all events to avoid quarrel. 

“ If it’s worse than this I shall die,” said Aunt Sophia, confi- 
dently. The remark perhaps was not solely made with reference 
to the sea voyage. The sense of being between her two nieces at 
daggers draAvn, of one of whom at least she stood in deadly fear, 
gave intensity to her foreboding. 

Elearjor laughed in her sUort, hard way. “We get used tq 


WITH HER MASK OFF. 


53 


everything in time; the sooner we find out tliat our best plan is 
to bear it the better.” 

To Edith’s excited mind, burning with the sense of her wrong, 
and the presence of her wrong-doer, this too seemed less of a gen- 
eral observation than it would have appeared to an outsider. She 
read a menace to herself between its lines. The instinct was 
strong within her to tax her cousin with her perfidy, and to defy 
her utmost malice, backed as it was by her father’s power, but 
she restrained herself for her aunt’s sake. It was not fair to 
place that timid and inoffensive lady in such a position that she 
must needs take sides with one of her two relatives, and that in 
all probability the side she would rather not have taken. There 
was a long and painful silence. Then, as though satisfied with 
her victory, Eleanor began to speak of ordinary matters, and, 
among other things, to discuss with her aunt — for Edith said lit- 
tle or nothing — matters of the ship. The captain she pronounced 
to be an impertinent sort of a person, who presumed on his posi- 
tion. She had reason to believe, she said, that it was Mr. Nor- 
tury’s intention to make him “ know his place.” 

“Really?” put in Aunt Sophia; the vision of the skipper in 
his uniform and sword was before her eyes, and he seemed too 
tremendous a personage to be thus subjugated, even by her 
doughty brother. 

“ Certainly,” said Eleanor, tartly; “indeed I am inclined to be- 
lieve, for I just saw papa take the captain into his cabin, that he 
is at this moment giving him a setting down.” 

Edith had a shrewd idea that the interview had a near con- 
nection with her own affairs, but it was plain that Eleanor enter- 
tained no such suspicion. “Captain Head,” she added, with an 
almost imperceptible toss of her head, “does not quite seem to 
understand who we are.” She would rather have said, so as to 
exclude her cousin from all participation in his dignity, “who 
papa is,” but that would have been to ignore her own impor- 
tance. 

“Mr. Marston and Mr. Redmay.ne are well enough,” she went 
on, “and I will say for Mr. Bates that he is particularly respect- 
ful, and seems to appreciate our position.” 

“And what nice little midshipmen they are,” said Aunt So- 
phia, “at least from what one saw of them last night; though I 
dare say it was their uniform that set them off so.” 

“I did not notice them; they are hardly officers at all,” ob- 
served Eleanor, contemptuously. 

“They are certainly officers,” said Edith, confidently. Her 
antagonism was fairly roused. 

“TImy can be disrated and fiogged,” replied her cousin, as 
though she would have liked to see it done. 

“ilow shocking!” murmured Aunt Sophia, with a shudder. 
“Rather than anything of that kind should take place I would 
get out and walk— that is, be drowned.” 


54 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


“ You would not be asked; it would be a matter of discipline,” 
observed her niece, severely. 

Here came up to them, with a polite salute, one of the proposed 
victims to outraged maritime law, a “ midsliipmite.” He was a 
lad of fifteen, tall for his age, but rather delicate - looking for a 
sailor boy. He had brown curly hair, blue eyes, and teeth like 
snow. He looked like a beautiful page — but not one of those 
pages who have buttons. Though by nature “ cheeky ” enough 
and full of mischief, his manners when, as at present, he was on 
his best behavior, were excellent. In his braiding of blue and 
gold he looked, every inch of him, a duodecimo gentleman. 

“ Mr. Marston has sent me to offer you this rug, ladies, as the 
morning is somewhat cold.” 

But now a difficulty arose. When he had received his orders 
from the first mate there had been but two ladies on deck; there 
were now three, wdiich was one more than the rug could accom- 
modate. As Aunt Sophia and Edith had thanked him instanta- 
neously and with some effusion, while Eleanor had only nodded 
as if in acknowledgment of what was her due, it was not surpris- 
ing that he paid his attentions to the two former, while the latter 
was for the moment literally “left out in the cold.” “ I will get 
you another rug directly,” he said to her politely, and then pro- 
ceeded to place the wrap round the other two ladies, taking par- 
ticular care and perhaps unnecessary time in tucking it up round 
Edith, who, it must be confessed, rewarded him with her sweetest 
smile. This brought a blush into his youthful cheek, which the 
conversation of the midshipmen’s mess had long since ceased to 
evoke. It was perhaps his first essay as a squire of dames. 

“And what is your name, young gentleman?” inquired Elea- 
nor, in a patronizing tone. His pretence at being grown up was 
very offensive to her; she felt it was her duty to “sit upon him” 
and thereby reduce him to his proper dimensions. 

“My name is Lewis Conolly.” 

“ And how old are you?” 

The boy’s face flushed crimson; his pride was wounded at be- 
ing interrogated like a school-boy, and in the presence of others. 
At the same time, there was a light in his eye that told of mis- 
chief. 

“ I am in my sixteenth year,” he answered, with the simplicity 
and meekness of a child. “ IIow old are you?” 

Eleanor answered nothing, but the color in her cheeks became 
even yet more unwholesome, as though its pastiness had gone sour. 

“Mr. Bates,” she exclaimed. The third mate, who was lean- 
ing on the taffrail at some distance, came up at once. “ This 
young gentleman has been impertinent to me.” 

“Indeed!” The dark, forbidding face grew sympathetically 
grave. “ What did he say?” 

“ I should think there was no need to go into details,” she an- 
swered, haughtily. “I say again he has been impertinent.” 


WITH HER MASK OFF. 


55 


“Go up to the mast-head, sir, and stay there until I call you 
down,” cried the officer, glaring fiercely at the boy. 

Master Lewis Conolly looked him straight in the face, giving 
him quite an angelic smile in exchange for his scowl, saluted (he 
was full of salutations, the politest little monkey on board the 
ship), and retired in the direction indicated. In a few seconds 
tliey beheld him climbing the rigging — not like a cat, as midship- 
men are figured, by any means, but with the utmost deliberation. 

“ Oh, Eleanor, how could you?” remonstrated Aunt Sophia. 

“He is a very impertinent young fellow,” put in Mr. Bates, 
“and wants a tight hand. To cool his heels up yonder for a 
couple of hours or so will do him all the good in the world.” 

“I call it most infamous and cowardly,” cried Edith, suddenly, 
with vehement indignation. 

“Of me, madam?” answered the officer, turning upon her with 
a very ugly smile. 

“No, sir, not of you— you have been merely unjust — but of the 
person who caused you to commit such an act of tyranny.” 

“My cousin Edith unhappily knows nothing of discipline,” 
explained Eleanor, in apologetic tones. “She forgets that her 
own case is an exceptional one, and thinks that every one else 
should be spoiled and have their own way.” 

Of this taunt Edith look no notice, and contented herself with 
observing very resolutely, “I shall lay the case before the cap- 
tain.” 

Mr. Bates glanced at Eleanor inquiringly. His look seemed to 
say, “ Will she really have the pluck to do that? If so, the mat- 
ter will become serious, and the burden will be on your shoulders.” 

Eleanor, on her part, was entertaining somewhat similar re- 
fiections. She wished to have the boy punished; but if the affair 
was to be investigated, his crime would have to be stated, which 
might not only seem insignificant in itself, but was calculated to 
make her appear ridiculous. 

“I have no desire to make a fuss about a trifle,” she said. 
Her tone was ungracious and reluctant enough, but the officer 
took it as cancelling his sentence. 

“Come down, you boy,” he shouted. 

Master Lewis Conolly detached one hand from the shrouds, 
saluted, and descended with the same deliberation of movement 
as he had gone up. 

“Come here, sir,” said Mr. Bates. He obeyed like an angel, 
but one who nevertheless was not provided with wings. 

“Thanks to this lady, sir,” continued the officer, indicating 
Eleanor, “you are pardoned this time.” 

Master Lewis Conolly saluted again, and, turning his blue eyes 
gratefully on Edith, replied," Thank you, madam,” and retired. 

The third mate also went his way, leaving the three ladies in 
even a more embarrassing position as regarded their relations to 
one another than he had found them. If silence had before been 


56 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


possible, to one of them at least it had now become unendurable. 
Eleanor Norbury’s nature was one of those that cannot accept 
defeat with grace, and which persists in a bad cause with the 
same pertinacity as though it Avere a good one. 

“You are doing what you can, Edith,” she said, in a voice 
trembling with passion, “to induce others to resist authority, as 
you have resisted it yourself. It will be bad for them, and soon- 
er or later, I warn you, it will be bad for you.” 

“ Are you commissioned by any one to threaten me?” inquired 
Edith, dryly. 

“Of course not to threaten you; but it is certainly my father’s 
wish that you should understand that he is getting tired of a pol- 
icy of conciliation.” 

“He will not succeed in his object any better by a policy of 
theft.” 

“ Of what?” cried Eleanor, rising to her feet with a suppressed 
scream of rage. 

The instant the accusing words had passed her lips, Edith per- 
ceived their double meaning. She had referred to the robbery 
of her letters only, but the recollection of her lover’s talk with 
Mr. Norbury at once recurred to her. She beheld in her imag- 
ination an indignant daughter resenting a charge of dishonesty 
against her father. 

“I am referring,” said Edith, in calmer tones than she would 
have thought it possible to use in such a matter, “to the abstrac- 
tion of my private letters from my cabin last night. From a 
conversation I had with my uncle yesterday evening I am in- 
clined to think that they were purloined at his instigation.” 

“Your suspicion is quite correct; I took them myself under 
his authority,” replied Eleanor, boldly; “they are now in his 
possession.” 

“Then he is a receiver of stolen goods.” 

“You dare to say that? Then 1 am a thief, I suppose?” 

“Most certainly, upon your own confession.” 

“Oh dear! oh dear!” murmured Aunt Sophia, “ pirates them- 
selves could be no worse than this.” 

The observation might well have been taken in its literal sense, 
if theft on board ship is an act of piracy, but it was evident that 
the speaker only intended it metaphorically, and as descriptive 
of the social imbroglio. 

“ I am not sorry, Edith,” continued her cousin, after a pause, 
which, to judge by the movement of her throat, was occupied in 
swallowing, “ that you have used this plainness of speech; your 
insolence and audacity convince me that you understand your 
position. It is just as well too that you, Aunt Sophia, should 
understand it. l(ly father’s patience with his niece and ward is 
exhausted. Since fair means — I mean since persuasion with her 
has utterly failed, he is fully resolved to exert his authority. 
The day of disobedience is over, as she will find.” 


CAPTAIN HEAD TO THE RESCUE. 


57 


A suspicion long existent in Edith’s mind, but never entertained 
— always loyally, up to this time, put aside as groundless and un- 
worthy — suddenly became conviction. 

“You have read Mr. Layton’s letters, Eleanor,” she exclaimed. 

Eleanor turned ghastly pale. “I have not,” she muttered be- 
tween her teeth. 

“That is a falsehood; and because they were written out of 
the fulness of his heart to me, and not to 5mu, you are full of 
jealousy and hatred.” 

“Oh dear! oh dear!” moaned Aunt Sophia. The gallant Gan- 
ges had made a dip more deep than usual, but it was not to that 
she referred, but to the social wreck that was taking place about 
her. Everything seemed going overboard, and she without a 
spar to cling to. 

“You will repent having said that, you— you hussy, as long 
as you live,” gasped Eleanor, almost speechless with fury. “Do 
not think you are going to have your way any more. Since 
your spirit cannot be bent, it must be broken, and you need look 
to me for neither help nor mercy.” 

“To you!” echoed Edith, with cold scorn. “ I must be desti- 
tute of help indeed before I look to such a source for succor.” 

“You speak as if you were still in London, with troops of 
friends purchased by the rumor of your wealth. But you are 
now bound for a land where legitimate authority is something 
more than a mere sham; and, in the mean time, on board this 
ship, you will find you are in firm hands.” 

The speaker suddenly grew dumb, and into her face there came 
a look of rancorous disappointment, such as her cousin rightly 
judged could have been evoked by one cause only. 

Edith’s back was to the companion-ladder, so that she could 
not see who was approaching them, but in her kinswoman’s face 
she recognized the new-comer as in a mirror. 

“ I am not, you see, so friendless as you supposed, Cousin Elean- 
or,” she answered, quietly. “ Perhaps I ought to have told you 
that ]Mr. Layton was on board.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

CAPTAIN HEAD TO THE RESCUE. 

In the records of battle we sometimes come across the graphic 
line, “ The enemy broke and fled.” This is generally the result 
of sudden panic. If the phrase can be applied to a single indi- 
vidual, it exactly fitted the behavior of Eleanor Norbury when 
she beheld Charles Layton standing before her. He had made no 
hostile demonstration — quite the contrary: he had lifted his hat 
with great politeness; but she rose at once, and, snatching up her 
skirts in her hand, as if to avoid the contamination of his touch. 


58 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


she rushed away, as Aunt Sophia would have expressed it, “ down- 
stairs.” The latter stood her ground — or rather sat where she 
was — from sheer incapacity to do otherwise. For the last quar- 
ter of an hour she had been consumed with that emotion which 
ladies in the marriage service are particularly required to avoid, 
“amazement.” It had seemed to lier that there was no longer 
room in her soul for any new surprise. But she was now fairly 
paralyzed with astonishment. For a moment it did not occur to 
her that Mr. Layton must be a passenger on board the Ganges, 
like herself ; he appeared to have literally dropped from the 
clouds. It was not a case of nee Deus intersit. No intervention 
short of this, she felt, could have saved Edith, and it had hap- 
pened in the very nick of time. She knew Eleanor well, and 
therefore knew what good cause Edith had to fear her. She had 
recognized the fact that evil days indeed were in store for her fa- 
vorite niece, and now that such a champion had so opportunely 
stepped in, her whole heart was stirred with joy. But it was a 
“fearful joy.” While she -welcomed the deliverer, she trembled 
at his audacity. Though her sympathies were altogether with 
Edith, she had by no means the courage of her opinions. Now 
that slie had got over the first shock of wonder, she would, despite 
the perils of locomotion, have essayed to follow Eleanor, quite as 
much from fear of her auger as from an instinct that the two 
lovers would wish to be left alone, had not Mr. Layton, with a 
grave smile, motioned her to remain. 

“Pray do not inm away from us,” he said. “Edith and I have 
no secrets from you, INIiss Norbury.” 

A judicious remark enough, but one that seemed to poor Aunt 
Sophia, as indeed it was, not a little compromising. It would be 
a great point gained, as Layton felt, if he could get her to declare 
herself on Edith’s side; but actual partisanship was be3’ond her 
powers; she had not, in fact, the pluck for it. The consciousness 
of her own weakness could be read in her troubled face. 

“ Oh, Mr. Layton, how could you?” she murmured, reproach- 
fully. “And yet, though I know it’s very wrong, I can’t help 
feeling glad.” 

“Of course you are glad that Edith has found a protector. 
None knows better than yourself how much she stood in need of 
one.” 

“ That is very true,” said Aunt Sophia, without suspecting the ex- 
tent of her own admission. “ But what can you do even now that 
you are here? It is useless to attempt to withstand my brother; 
he will stir up everybody on board the ship against you, even that 
dear old captain.” 

“But not that dear j'oung midshipman,” put in Edith, paren- 
thetically. Her good spirits had returned to her with amazing- 
quickness now that her lover was by her side. 

“My dear child, what is the good of a midshipman? How 
can he help you up at the mast-head?” 


CAPTAIN HEAD TO THE RESCUE. 


59 


“ I have reasou to suppose that Mr. Norhury is now speaking 
with the captain,” said Layton. 

“ Good heavens! What will be done to you?” exclaimed Aunt 
Sophia. “ He can’t put you in irons, can he?” 

“I don’t think he can,” answered the young man, smiling. 
“Mr. Norbury will suggest, no doubt, some measure of that kind, 
but it will hardly be received with favor. Your brother’s man- 
ner is a little too dictatorial, I fancy, to suit Captain Head.” 

“You do not know my brother, Mr. Layton,” returned Aunt 
Sophia, in a frightened whisper. “He never forgives where he 
has been thwarted as you have thwarted him. If the poor cap- 
tain ventures to take your part, he will lose his ship.” 

At this prediction the young barrister laughed aloud. “Cap- 
tain Head can take care of himself, I think, even against Mr. Nor- 
bury; nor am I at all alarmed upon my own account. But dear 
Edith stands in sore need of a friend of her own sex. If you de- 
sert her. Miss Norbury, she will be isolated indeed: if you go over 
to the enemy — ” 

“No, no,” interrupted Aunt Sophia, clasping her trembling 
hands; “I will never do that. But pray, pray do not ask me to 
take sides with her openly. If I promised to do it, Eleanor 
would make me break my promise within the first five minutes. 
You don’t know what Eleanor is, Mr. Layton, when she gets you 
alone.” 

“That is true, ’’said Mr. Layton, with great gravity. Not so 
much as a twinkle of his eye betrayed that there had been a time 
when he might have informed himself upon that point. “ I would 
not put you in a painful position with respect to your own be- 
longings for the world, but remember that Edith also is your own 
flesh and blood.” 

“ I love her dearly,” sighed Aunt Sophia. 

“I believe you do; but I wish to put you on your guard, lest 
your respect for her should be impaired by calumny. If I have 
done anything amiss, which I deny, in coming on board this ship, 
the fault is wholly mine; nor had she the least knowledge of my 
intention. She is as innocent and simple as others whom we know 
of are unscrupulous and designing; whenever you hear anything 
said against her I do not ask you to contradict it, but only to say 
to yourself, ‘ This is a lie 1’ Give her all the comfort you can, 
and leave her defence to me. If anything should happen to me 
(hush, dear ’’—this to Edith, whose hand he was holding in his own 
— “you must let me speak to your aunt now I have the chance; 
it may never occur again)— I say, dear Miss Norbury, if anything 
should happen to me, remember that this girl, your dead broth- 
er’s child, has no friend on earth but you. You must advise her 
for the best from your own heart, and not from the promptings of 
others.” . 

There was a half-articulate “I will ” from Aunt Sophia. She 
Avas sobbing. The picture thus drawn of her niece’s bereavement, 


60 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


and of the responsibility thereby imposed upon herself, had been 
too much for lier. 

“I was sure that I could trust to ^mur kind heart,” said the 
young man, gratefully. “I will not detain you longer, lest your 
remaining here should be construed into a more active alliance 
with us.” 

He rose and was about to offer her his arm when his eye caught 
that of the young midshipman, who was watching the little group 
at some distance. 

“ Mr. Conolly,”he said, will you be kind enough to escort this 
lady to the cuddy?” 

The young gentleman was at his side in a moment, with an ear- 
nest “ Nothing will give me greater pleasure.” 

“ No, sir, not that lady — this one.” 

The midshipman had offered his arm to Edith, and now trans- 
ferred it to Aunt Sophia quite politely, byt with perhaps not the 
same alacrity that he had originally shown. 

“My dear boy, your arm is not a bit of use. You must let 
me hold on to you as I can,” cried the unhappy ladj’-. They 
staggered away together to the companion-ladder. She had be- 
gun by taking his shoulder with one hand, to steady herself; the 
last thing they saw of her she was clasping his neck with both 
her arms, and nothing was to be seen of Master Lewis Conolly at 
all. 

The two young people looked at one another and laughed in- 
voluntarily, which was the best thing they could have done, for it 
relieved the tension of their minds. Up to this moment, it must 
be remembered, not a word of explanation had passed between 
them, and even now, with the sailors passing to and fro about 
them, they could not be said to be alone. 

“ You are not sorry to see me, love? Y’ou are not angry that I 
have taken you by surprise?” murmured the young fellow. The 
voice that had been so bold in defending another had the accents 
of a dove now that he was defending himself. 

“Sorry! Oh no, not sorry, nor yet angry, Charley; but why 
did you not tell me yesterday of what you proposed to do? then 
that parting would not have been so terrible; I should have been 
spared twelve hours of a misery that was almost despair.” 

“I was afraid to do so, Edie, lest your face should have re- 
vealed our secret. If your uncle had known of my intention to 
be your fellow-passenger, he would have forfeited his passage- 
money rather than have permitted it.” 

“ That is true, indeed,” acknowledged Edith; “but you have 
offended him past all pardon.” 

“ I do not want his pardon.” For one moment he was tempted 
to add, “ though he may want yours;” but he resisted the impulse. 
He would not pain the girl by telling her of her uncle’s dishon- 
esty, though the revelation would have been so advantageous to 
him. Edith, on her part, had good grounds for guessing what 


CAPTAIN HEAD TO THE EESCUE. 


61 


was on the tip of his tongue, and the motive which prevented him 
from giving it utterance.' Thus, which rarely happens in this 
world, he reaped the benefit of his chivalry, 

“ You dear!” ejaculated the young lady. A tribute to his del- 
icacy of feeling which her lover took for a mere natural outburst 
of affection. 

“ I wish there were not so many people about,” returned her 
lover, yearningly. “ Even at night I suppose they always have 
a watch on deck, confound them!” 

“ I hope so, indeed,” said Edith, with an affectation of ignorance 
of his meaning that was simply bewitehing. “You don’t want 
to be run down, I suppose.” 

“I don’t want you to run me down,” he replied, comically, 
“though since I have had the pleasure of your uncle’s acquaint- 
ance I am getting quite used to the operation. Perhaps I ought 
to tell you, by-the-bye, at once, that he and I have had a talk to- 
gether. He has given me that piece of his mind which he has so 
long promised me. It is better that you should know the facts 
so far — he and I are now at daggers drawn,” 

“ Do not say that,” she answered, with a little shiver. “It is 
sufficient to tell me that you have quarrelled.” 

“ That circumstance does not affect me in the least. Upon the 
whole, I am glad that he and I now thoroughly understand each 
other. My only fear is that it may affect you. It is possible 
that your unele may persuade the captain to allow him to use 
compulsion with you, to make’you a prisoner in your cabin; but 
I don’t think he will. I am not without some influence at my 
back, and I have still my own appeal to make to him. If it suc- 
ceeds, or if the captain is the man I take him to be, nothing can 
prevent our enjoying each other’s society on board the Ganges. 
We shall have weeks and weeks of uninterrupted happiness be- 
fore us. That is a great gain, in any case. When we get to In- 
dia our position will doubtless be more difficult, but by no means 
hopeless. In the mean time, my darling love, we shall be together. 
Hush! That is the captain’s voice in your uncle’s cabin, which 
is next to mine; they are at it together hammer and tongs.” 

They had been at it together some time. Hitherto, however, 
they had been prudently talking in hushed tones, while the con- 
versation on deck had prevented Edith’s attention being drawn to 
it, as on the former occasion. 

“As to shutting up your niece, sir, in her cabin, on board my 
ship,” cried the captain, angrily, “I should as soon think of^iv- 
ing you permission to put her in the hold. To be frank with 
you, I cannot conceive any one calling himself a gentleman pro- 
posing such a measure.” 

Mr. Norbury’s rejoinder was inaudible, but it probably took 
the form of a threat, for the captain’s voice pealed out again louder 
than ever. 

“You may make what representations of my conduct you please, 


62 


A PKINCE OF TIJE BLOOD. 


sir, to whom you please. I know my duty, which for one thing 
demands that I should afford protection to my lady passengers, 
and not to play into the hands of any domestic tyrant. If you want 
to bully your womenfolk, then stay ashore, sir.” 

There were some inarticulate sounds in reply, wmrds doubtless 
smothered in rage, which acted on the other as flax on fire. 

“ Repent it! No, sir, I shall not repent it, whatever comes of 
it. And as for insolence, let me tell you that as captain of this 
ship I will brook such a term from no man. The love affair be- 
tween your niece and this 3mung gentleman is, it is true, none of 
my business, but if I hear of any compulsion being used towards 
her, there’s a parson on board, and, as sure as my name’s Henry 
Head, he shall marry those young people in the cudd3^” 

Then the cabin door was closed with a bang, as it had been 
closed before, and Mr. Norbury was left alone with such cogita- 
tions as can be conjectured. 

“ How terrible it all is, Charley,” murmured Edith, in a whis- 
per. “Of what dreadful scenes have I become the unhappy 
cause?” 

“The innocent, but not the unhappy cause, my darling. Why 
should you be unhapp}’^? We shall now be at liberty to do as we 
please, which will be ■charming. There can be only one thing 
better, that your uncle should try compulsion, in which case we 
shall be married in the cuddy.” 


CHAPTER X. 

LAND. 

Human affairs in general can be more or less calculated upon. 
The annuity companies look forward with well-grounded philos- 
ophy to the decease of their fellow-creatures within a reasonable 
time. But, in the abstract, matters are wholly different. The in- 
dividual knows not what a day ma^" bring forth, nor even one 
pregnant hour. To him “ nothing comes with certainty except 
the unexpected.” 

AVithiu a space of time that seemed too short for their occur- 
rence, circumstances had effected a complete boulevermmeiit in the 
fortunes of Edith Norbury. The weary voyage that she had 
looked forward to with such apprehension had been suddenly 
transformed into a pleasure trip. The end of it, of course, was to 
be proportionally dreaded; but that is the case with all human 
happiness. The most long-lived love contains in it from the first 
the germs of “ parting,” but the sense of it happily does not haunt 
us throughout our lives. A few hours of her lover’s society had 
hitherto been all that fate had vouchsafed her, and even those had 
been trammelled with hinderances and prohibitions. Now there 
W^re whole weeks before her of unrestricted enjoyment, “Eet 


LAND. 


63 


US gather our roses while we may,” was the motto of these happy 
young people; and upon the whole it was a wise one. If the 
quarrel between Edith and her people had been less complete, her 
position would have been far less enviable. The remark of the 
Eastern executioner when racking his mother-in-law, “Our rela- 
tions are getting a little strained,” did not apply to her case, for 
all connection between herself and them was cut off, as it were, 
“ at the main,” and for the present, at least, whatever future evil 
might come of it, this w'as the more convenient, since she lay un- 
der no necessity to conciliate them. 

Her uncle and Eleanor, being unable to make a prisoner of her, 
as they would certainly have done if they could, put her “ in Cov- 
entry,” and a very agreeable residential spot she found it. She 
had now and then a stolen interview with Aunt Sophia, who was, 
however, unable to tell her what was going on in the enemy’s 
camp. She was herself “ suspect,” or, to borrow a golden phrase, 
coined in the Reign of Terror, “ suspected of being suspect,” and 
(worse than boycotted) was at once denied the confidence of her 
own people, and forbidden to hold intercourse with their rebel- 
lious relative. With sea-sickness superadded— for she never got 
over that from first to last — this poor lady’s lot was certainly a 
most deplorable one. It may be said that she deserved it for not 
throwing in her lot where her sympathies were already enlisted; 
but heroism is not so easy to practise as to applaud. She had al- 
ways been in her brother’s hands, into which, as Mr. Layton sus- 
pected, her property, if she had had any, had already passed, and 
was as unfitted by nature as by circumstances to take a line of 
her own in any direction. Such persons deserve the pity of their 
fellow-creatures rather than their blame; yet they seldom get it, 
especially, as in Aunt Sophia’s case, when they are of stout pro- 
portions. The misleading proverb, “Laugh and grow fat,” robs 
them of half the sympathy that is their due. She therefore stood, 
or rather sat, apart while the other inmates of the Ganges ranged 
themselves on one side or the other in the family quarrel. 

The two lovers, thanks to Edith’s gracious manners and good 
looks, had a great majority with them. Captain Head, as we 
know, had early declared for them. IMr. Marston, though believ- 
ing he held himself straight as a poplar in the calm atmosphere 
of duty, was swayed towards them in spite of himself. Mr. Red- 
may ne was an open partisan of theirs, and in his wild, enthusiastic 
way suggested that Mr. Norbury and his daughter should be put 
out at the Cape and left there. Mr. Ainsworth, as a man of peace, 
endeavored to effect a reconciliation; but finding his efforts re- 
sented by Mr. Norbury with much contempt, joined Edith’s ban- 
ner. “ I cannot fight for you,” he said to Mr. Layton; “ my cloth 
forbids it; but on the shortest notice I will marry you in the 
cuddy.” 

The captain’s threat had got about, and, like all jokes on ship- 
board, had been received with rapture. But it was iu the mid- 


64 


A PliINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


shipmen’s berth that Edith’s cause was embraced with the great- 
est ardor. Master Lewis Conolly was understood to hold himself 
in readiness to meet Mr. Norbury in mortal combat with any 
weapon that gentleman might choose against his modest dirk; 
iMasters Arthur North and Frederic Taylor confined themselves 
• to challenging (in imagination) the tyrant to fisticuffs with one 
arm tied behind them. The sailors, too, almost to a man, were 
for the young ladj^; they toasted her charms in grog in the fore- 
castle, and compared her favorably with the figure-head of their 
vessel, which they had hitherto believed to be of unrivalled beau- 
ty. There are not many things with which a lady can propitiate 
the sailors on board the ship on which she is a passenger; but on 
the other hand, if she is young and beautiful she is looked upon 
by the more impressionable among them as a queen is on shore, 
and a gracious smile and a kind word from her go a long way; of 
these Edith was naturally lavish. Moreover, when it came to 
subscriptions for the entertainment of Neptune & Company on 
the day when they crossed the line, she gave with a free hand, 
which no doubt contrasted favorably with the conduct of her 
cousin, who, like Mr, John Gilpin, though not indeed bent on 
pleasure, “had a frugal mind.” 

Edith’s popularity was not, however, universal. It was gener- 
ally understood that Mr. Norbury was a person of great influence 
with “John Company,” and could do a great deal for a man if 
he had a mind that way. Even the sturdy British sailor is not 
always blind to his own private advantage, and has been known 
to make lovely woman herself subordinate to it; but the few who 
were opposed to the young couple were for the most part hang- 
ers-on of ]\Ir. Bates, the third mate, who, as we have seen, had 
from the first entered into an alliance with his former patron. 
What the relations between himself and Mr. Norbury had pre- 
viously been none quite understood, but it was supposed that he 
had been in that gentleman’s employment, where he had commit- 
ted defalcations. From this charitable view it will be justly con- 
cluded that this officer was not a persona grata onboard the Gan- 
ges; and indeed he was very thoroughly hated by almost the 
entire ship’s company. The only exception, save among the 
common sailors, among whom he had a small following of his 
own, was Gideon Ghorst, the interpreter, a Hindoo who had lost 
his caste, and in the process acquired many things unknown (let 
us hope) to my readers, and among them a smattering of some 
unconsidered Eastern tongues, including Malay. His limited ac- 
quaintance with English probably prevented him from under- 
standing the nature of the language which the third mate occa- 
sionally used to him in common with the rest of his companions 
in the lorecastle, while his nature was so gentle that he was ready 
to curry favor with anybody for an allowance of rum. 

Notwithstanding that sense of being a general favorite, which 

so agreeable to us all till we come to learu its real value at a 


LAND. 


65 


pinch, and the almost constant companionship of her lover, Edith 
Norbnry was by no means easy in her mind. Though she had 
no cause to love her people, but, on the contrary, greatly to mis- 
trust and fear them, their total estrangement from her was dis- 
tressing. In this respect, perhaps more than any other, a wom- 
an’s nature is unlike a man’s, that home ties, even when they take 
the form of fetters, are essential to her. 

That Mr. Norbury and his daughter should have taken to “ the 
sulks ” was a matter of great congratulation to Charley, who hailed 
the excommunication which they had pronounced upon Edith 
and himself as though it had been a “Bless you, my children!” 
uttered by Mr. Norbury, as “heavy father,” with uplifted hands. 
Even if’ they had been his own flesh and blood their enmity 
would probably not have caused him the least inconveuienee. 
Nay, had Mr. Norbury been not only his own uncle, but possessed 
of all the cardinal virtues instead of being, as he shrewdly sus- 
pected, a great rogue, and had yet behaved harshly and unjustly 
towards himself, he would probably have been well content to 
quarrel with him. “If he be not fair to me,” he would have said 
to himself, “ what eare I for his ‘warmth ’and reputation for in- 
tegrity in the city?” It is the privilege and perquisite of a man 
to shake himself free of the closest bonds of relationship when 
they gall him. But Edith, though innocent of its existenee, se- 
cretly bewailed the gulf that yawned so widely between her and 
her belongings. Her disposition prompted her to live at peace 
with all her fellow-creatures, but “especially with those of her 
own household.” She more than once had confided her regrets 
on this matter to Aunt Sophia, who had sympathized with them 
to the uttermost. That excellent woman, through long habit of 
submission (for she had really by nature a good baekbone of her 
own), had become so dependent as to absolutely demand some 
sort of lattiee-work to cling to — (“Miss Virginia Creeper,” Mr. 
Layton used to call her, with reference to this parasitic tendency, 
though indeed she was no parasite) — otherwise, in spite of flouts 
and repulses, she would not have striven as she did to effect a 
reconciliation between those she feared and those she loved. 
Hitherto her endeavors had met with no success, but a time came 
when, somewhat unexpectedly, her brother showed signs of yield- 
ing. It was the evening before the day on which it was expect- 
ed that they would enter Simon’s Bay, where the Ganges was to 
stop for a day or two, and every one who could get leave was 
going on shore. 

“We shall sight land to-morrow, Sophia,” said Mr. Norbury, 
with unwonted affability, “and Eleanor and I propose a little 
jaunt as far as Cape Town. It would give us pleasure to take 
you with us, for a day or two ashore would, I am sure, be a great 
relief to you, after ali you have suffered ; but then, you see, there 
is Edith, whom we can hardly leave alone on shipboard.” 

It struck Aunt Sophia for the moment that they had left ber 
5 


66 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


alone a good deal already, but that rebellious idea was character- 
istically dismissed from her mind as soon as it had entered it; it 
was of course a different thing, she reflected, to avoid her society, 
and to make it impossible by their absence for her to communi- 
cate with them at all. Though she had been forbidden to hold 
converse with her niece in general terms, occasional intercourse 
with her had been winked at (the fact being that Mr. Norbury had 
used his sister as an unconscious spy on Edith’s actions), and it 
was only natural they should be unwilling to leave her without a 
female companion. 

“Of course I must stay with Edith,” answered Aunt Sophia, 
with a little sigh, for the prospect of even a day or two upon terra 
jirma, where, save under very unexceptional circumstances, there 
were no “sinkings,” and where, when the wind blows, it only af- 
fects your garments, and not your legs, was veiy tempting to her. 

“Unless,” put in Mr. Norbury, “Edith would condescend to 
make one of our party.” 

“I am sure if you or Eleanor would ask her she would be only 
too pleased,” said Aunt Sophia, eagerly. 

“ I shall certainly not ask her,” observed Eleanor, sharply. “ If 
my father chooses to put her in-possession of his wishes on the 
subject, and to have them disregarded, is another matter, which 
only concerns himself and his self-respect.” 

Mr. Norbury glanced at his daughter in a very unpaternal man- 
ner — indeed, much as he was wont to glance at his niece when he 
met her, as necessity compelled him to do, at. meals and on deck, 
with Mr. Charles Layton in her close vicinity. 

“Hold your tongue, miss, and keep your opinion till it’s want- 
ed,” was his austere rejoinder. “No, Sophia, after what has 
passed between Edith and myself, it is impossible that I could run 
the risk of any rejection of my advances. I feel, indeed, that the 
present state of our relations with each other is deplorable, and 
should be glad to put an end to it; though that, of course, is an 
admission which it would be impossible to make to her. The only 
manner in which it can be arranged is through an intermediary. 
You can tell her if you like that, as the ship is calling at Simon’s 
Town for fresh meat, and will stay there a couple of days, we 
propose to drive over to Cape Town. If she will join us, no ref- 
erence will be made to the subject of Mr. Layton ; but it must be 
understood, of course, that that person does not intrude himself 
on our society.” 

This message, though couched in much more gracious terms — 
as Mr. Norbury no doubt took it for granted it would be — was 
duly conveyed by Aunt Sophia to Edith, who in her turn laid 
the proposition before her lover. 

“You will do, my dear,” he said, “ exactly as you please about 
it; but if your uncle thinks he is going to give me the slip by 
keeping you at Cape Town and letting the Ganges sail without 
you, he is greatly mistaken.” 


LAND. 


67 


“ I am quite sure he has no plan of that kind in view,” put in 
Aunt Sophia, “for we are to take only luggage sufficient for a 
couple of days. You smile as if that might be a blind, Mr. Lay- 
ton; but you don’t know Eleanor. Nothing, I am quite sure, 
would ever induce her to be permanently parted from her ward- 
robe.” 

“Still, if Edith goes to Cape Town, so shall I,” observed the 
young man, decisively. “I shall not in any way interfere with 
your family party; but I only trust Mr. Norbury as far as I see 
him, and therefore I shall not let him out of my sight.” 

Edith was willing enough to enter the door of reconciliation 
thus placed, as it were, ajar for her, while, upon the other hand, 
her apprehensions were calmed by her lover’s precautions. 
Peace, or rather what was after all little better than an armed 
neutrality, was, metaphorically, sealed and signed that night be- 
tween her and her relatives in the cuddy. If it was not so good 
as being married there, it was, she tried to feel, better than that 
ignoring of each other’s existence which they had been wont to 
practise. To her sanguine disposition it seemed of happy augury 
that their subject of conversation— for of course all personal mat- 
ters were eschewed — was the country they were about so soon 
to visit, the Cape of Good Hope. Eleanor, though she thought 
novels “ frivolous,” was a great reader of travels, and discoursed 
of Cape Town and its climate and of the dimensions of Table 
Mountain with accurate severity. As a Minister “puts up” 
some member of the House to talk out an unwelcome measure, 
so her father had enjoined on her to make conversation, in order 
to avoid the intrusion of any embarrassing topic, and — like most 
reticei •- persons when they do talk — she talked like a book. It 
was not very interesting; but a time was coming, though close 
hidden in the cloud that shrouds our future, wherein Edith was 
glad to dwell upon it as being at least a memory void of offence. 

The captain was to stay oli board to superintend matters re- 
lating to the provisioning of the ship, but both the first and sec- 
ond mates were to be of Mr. Norbury’s party in the Cape wagon 
the next day. Mr. Bates, on the other hand, was to stay in Si- 
mon’s Town, where he had English, or, as suggested by his ship- 
mates, more likely, native relations. He was well acquainted 
with the place, and informed Mr. Layton where a horse could be 
hired to go to Cape Town. His manner of so doing was almost 
polite; and indeed the near approach of laud seemed to have a 
more or ^.ess conciliating effect on everybody. It is probable that 
nobody but a pirate, or that teredo navalis, the ship’s bore, from 
which no passenger vessel can hope to be free, really relishes 
“ blue water” — the being out of sight of his natural element for 
any length of time. 

When Aunt Sophia awoke in the morning she found herself 
for the first time for six weeks in a state of equilibrium; the 
Ganges had ceased its eternal game of pitch and toss, and was 


68 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


floating at anchor on Simon’s Bay like a lake cygnet which had 
never so much as heard of “the art of sinking.” Never, as it 
seemed to her, had she seen such an enchanting prospect as pre- 
sented itself from the deck: the waveless sea, the safe and solid 
hills, with the sun shining full upon them from a cloudless sky; 
the little town, which, mellowed by distance, seemed a place to 
live and die in. Everything on board seemed to speak of holi- 
day, and passengers and crew to be doing their level best to enjoy 
it. Even Mr. Bates had a grin on his face as he came up to con- 
gratulate her on the fair weather, and to point out the objects of 
interest— the fountain on the hill where the clothes were being 
washed and dried, and the admiral’s abode, which stood out from 
its humbler neighbors surmounted by its flag. It seemed a life- 
time since she had seen a house, or any hill that was not a 
wave. 

All that were bound for Cape Town, with the exception of IMr. 
Layton, were despatched in the flrst boat; he would not embar- 
rass Edith by his companionship, but at the same time was re- 
solved that no trick should be played him; if he could not actu- 
ally keep them in sight he could follow them at a sufficiently 
short interval. A smaller boat, with Mr. Bates and some seamen 
with leave of absence for the day, was to start immediately after- 
wards with him. The former gentleman had already, as he had 
informed him, secured him a riding horse by messenger, and was 
giving him directions as to the road — which, however, it was al- 
most impossible he could miss — wdiile the boat was getting ready. 

“You will have the whole of to-morrow in Cape Town to 
3murself,” he was saying, “for you can do the return journey 
easil}’^ in two hours, and we shall not sail till evening.” 

At this moment one Brownrigg, a creature of I^lr. Bates’s, who 
had of late been under punishment for intoxication, came up to 
the third mate and asked permission to go on shore. There was 
no particular privacy in the application, which, indeed, was made 
in an unnecessarily loud and somewhat impertinent tone, but Mr. 
Layton mechanically moved away from them a pace or two. As 
he did so he heard in a low but distinct whisper the words, “ Don’t 
go!” There was such a significant hush and caution in them that 
he repressed the exclamation of surprise that rose to his lips, and 
only looked about him. No one was very near him save Mr. 
Bates and the sailor, but leaning over the taffrail at a little dis- 
tance was Master Lewis Conolly. Layton at once assumed the 
same position, for, though the telephone had not yet been in- 
vented, he was aware of the carrying powers which a piece of 
wood like the taffrail of a vessel possesses as regards sound. Ke 
leaned over it, and looked down into the water as the midship- 
man was doing, but without taking any notice of him. “Well, 
you may leave, my man,” said Mr. Bates, in a voice that was cer- 
tainly intended to be heard; “but if you go near the liquor store, 
understand that it will be the worse for you.” 


NUMBER TWO. 


69 


“Don’t go,” murmured the warning voice again, more earnest- 
ly than before, “ your life is in danger,” 

“Now, Mr. Layton, the boat is ready, if you are,” cried the 
mate. 

‘ ‘ One moment, Mr. Bates. I have forgotten to take any money, ” 
exclaimed the barrister. He ran down to his cabin, apparently 
to procure what is said to make the mare to go, and which he 
would undoubtedly require for his equestrian trip; but it seemed 
to be his custom, as among the natives of the East, to carry two 
purses. He placed one of them in one pocket and one in the oth- 
er; and they were pretty heavy ones, considering the short time 
he proposed to be away. The men in the boat were holding on 
to the ship’s side in waiting for him when he returned to the 
deck, and Master Couolly, standing with his back to them, re- 
garded him with a scared, reproachful look. 

“All right, Mr, Bates, I’m ready for you now,” said Mr. Lay- 
ton, with a significant look at the lad intended to reassure him. 
Though he seemed to understand it, it had not, however, that, 
effect. Leaning on the taffrail, he watched Mr, Layton as he 
took his place in the stern with an expression of unutterable 
woe. 

“Why, is not Mr. Conolly coming with us?” exclaimed Lay- 
ton, with a sudden impulse; “ you will give him leave, Mr. Bates, 
I’m sure?” 

“I cannot, sir; he is the midshipman on duty,” returned the 
mate, curtly. “ Shove off, men,” and away they went. As they 
did so it seemed to Layton that Master Conolly’s eyes travelled 
from his face to that of the sailor Brownrigg with a look of in- 
tense distrust and apprehension, as though the “ Don’t go, your 
life is in danger,” had been supplemented by that parting glance 
with “ and from that man.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

NUMBER TWO. 

Brownrigg was a turbulent, sullen-looking fellow enough, as 
Layton admitted to himself as he watched the man stretch to 
his oar; but he had no cause to dread his enmity. There was 
only one man, indeed, on board the Ganges of whom he could 
say that; but his hostility, as he felt, was so bitter that it might 
well have made any one to whom his patronage extended" his 
enemy. He knew, indeed, of no relation of the sort existing be- 
tween Mr. Norbury and the man in question; but Mr. Bates was 
an ally of Mr. Norbury’s, and this fellow was one of his hench- 
men. It had not escaped Layton’s observation that he had given 
the man leave to go on shore, in spite of his recent misbehavior; 
whereas indulgence and forgiveness were not usually among Mr. 
Bates’s weaknesses in dealing with his subordinates. 


70 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


The new-born civility of tlie third mate towards himself was 
also a little suspicious. He had understood from other sources 
that it was really difficult to obtain a mare or horse in Simon’s 
Town, and yet Mr. Bates had secured one for him, notwithstand- 
ing that no less than six had been requisitioned for the wagon 
that conveyed the rest of the party. The similarity of the case 
with that of the horse of Troy, which the Trojans omitted to 
“look in the mouth,” or elsewhere, because it was a gift horse, 
struck him very forcibly. Perhaps this animal would turn out 
to be a buck-jumper ; but even so, he had been accustomed to 
ride from boyhood, and feared nothing that horse could do to 
him.. When they reached shore the boat was beached, and every 
man betook himself to such enjoyment as was to his taste and the 
little town afforded for him. 

At its unambitious inn, “The Clarence,” to which Mr. Bates 
himself convoyed him, he found his promised steed, already sad- 
dled and in waiting for him. It did not look at all like a buck- 
jumper, nor, in truth, a jumper of any kind ; but he saw no reason 
why it should not carry him for the twenty miles or so that lay 
between him and Cape Town. A Hottentot or two, with the ap- 
pearance of having breakfasted d la fourcliette, and very largely, 
were hanging about the yard. One of them offered to run be- 
side Layton’s horse and show him the way to Cape Town — a feat 
that, for one with such a paunch, seemed absolutely incredible, 
though the landlord assured him it could be accomplished; but 
the young barrister declined his services. The road, indeed, as 
he had been informed, was not a good one; but as there was no 
other he could hardly miss it; and in a few minutes he was on 
his way. 

The first ten miles between Simon’s Ba}^ and Cape Town, 
though no doubt they have their charms for those who travel it 
fresh from the heaving deep, are very barren and uninteresting. 
At the date of Mr. Layton’s acquaintance with it the road was 
hardly recognizable as such, especially where some stream from 
the mountains intersected its sandy track with its deep channel; 
but as its wheel-marks showed where the wagon had preceded 
him, he had no difficulty in finding his way. His progress was, 
however, slow, for it was difficult to rouse his steed to a canter, 
and he arrived at the hotel some time after his predecessors, who 
had already lunched, and were seeing the local lions. In this 
matter he was more fortunate than he knew, since his friends had 
already been so thoroughly put to the question as regarded home 
news by all the English sojourners at the hotel that he himself 
almost escaped that fiery ordeal. 

There are few things more pathetic — and more subversive, by 
the way, of the idea that home is wherever we ourselves happen 
to be — than the eager inquiries put to a new arrival from the 
old country by colonists (of the first generation, at least). “Can 
you tell me, sir,” entreated an old gentleman who came upon 


NUMBER TWO. 


71 


Layton — looking at Table Mountain with an air of interest that 
at once convinced him that he was a visitor, whereas he was 
merely wondering whether his beloved Edith had been provided 
witli a quiet and sure-footed steed for that inevitable expedition 
— ‘ ‘ can you be so very good as to tell me ” — and the tears seemed 
near his eyes as he spoke — “ what horse has won the Derby?” 

On Table Mountain, Edith seemed to Layton to be safe, at least 
from abduction, which was his chief apprehension on her ac- 
count; nor could he well follow the party, considering the nar- 
rowness of the road, without at one point or another meeting 
them point-blank, which would have been very embarrassing. 
The attractions of Rondebosch and Wynberg — the Richmonds of 
Cape Town — and the more intellectual temptations of its mag- 
nificent public library otfered themselves to him in vain ; his 
mind was too anxious to admit of such distractions, and indeed 
he always felt more or less uneasy when he was not hanging 
about the court-yard, where the Cape wagon, fitted for horses 
and not for oxen, in which his beloved had arrived, seemed to 
give him a solid guarantee that she had not been spirited away 
from him. In this yard he met, more than once, another individ- 
ual, who also seemed upon the watch, and whose outline had 
appeared not unfamiliar to him. On the second occasion he 
recognized him for certain as the Hottentot who had offered to 
accompany him from Simon’s Town, and who had now apparent- 
ly performed that trip for his own pleasure. Upon claiming ac- 
quaintance with him, however, this persevering native declined 
to admit his own identity ; as he denied it in Dutch, indeed— 
a language, of course, unknown to his interlocutor — this would 
have gone for little to shake Layton’s conviction, any way; but 
moreover, he was one of those persons who do not forget faces, 
whether native or foreign. It was certainly the same man, and 
his unexpected reappearance seemed to Layton to bode no good. 
His mind was full of apprehension, and at once jumped to the con- 
clusion that this fellow was a spy set to watch his movements on 
behalf of Mr. Norbury. This reflection did not tend to render 
his' stay in Cape Town more pleasant; there was nothing for it, 
however, but to remain and carry out his simple programme for 
the next twenty-four hours. 

Wherever Edith and her party went after their return from 
Table Mountain, he followed, though at a respectful distance, and 
the next afternoon, having seen them off on their return journey, 
he prepared to take the same route. He had not ridden a hun- 
dred yards, however, when he found his horse was dead lame, 
and had to return to the inn for another. How the lameness had 
come about there was no explanation, the landlord combating the 
view that it had been the work of the Hottentot on the ground 
that he was in the employment of the very man at Simon’s Town 
to whom the horse belonged— an argument which only corrobo- 
rated the suspicion Layton entertained, but which he thought it 


12 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


wiser to keep to himself. As it happened, there was no horse 
procurable for some time, and the one that was at last offered him 
was a sorry nag even by comparison with its predecessor. He 
had no choice, however, but to take it, for his time was getting 
very short, and he well knew the strictness and punctuality with 
which the captain’s orders were executed. Though he had shown 
himself so well disposed to him, it was quite possible if he failed 
to appear at the landing-place at the appointed hour that the 
Ganges might sail without him. He therefore hustled his Rosi- 
nante along as well as he could. 

The shades of evening were falling before he had ridden ten 
miles out from Cape Town, and he found a difficulty in cross- 
ing the first ravine, or nullah. It was the only one, however, that 
was wooded on both sides, and he hoped by the help of an early 
moon to find the rest of the way easily enough. He had got 
through the water, and was climbing the dip into the road be- 
yond, when he heard something whizzing past his head, and, 
glancing back, perceived a native in the act of selecting a second 
spear from quite a sheaf of them. What light there was was 
fortunately behind his assailant, and threw out the outlines of his 
figure clearly enough. Layton, thrusting his hand into his pocket, 
drew forth a pistol and took a snap shot at the most prominent 
portion of the enemy’s frame. Then the same thing, only worse, 
happened that occurred to Mr. Dean, the archaeologist in the 
ballad — 

“A chunk of old red sandstone hit him in the abdomen, 

And he smiled a sickly smile and curled up upon the floor. 

And the rest of the proeeediugs interested him no more.” 

The Hottentot “curled up” and fell, throwing his hands into 
the air as men do when summoned by the bushranger Death. At 
the same instant a man with a crape mask over his features rushed 
out of the scrub by the way-side and struck at Layton with some 
sharp instrument. The blow fell short, and only severed his rein, 
and before it could be repeated Layton fired his second pistol 
point-blank in the face of this new assailant, and with the like 
result. He dropped at his feet like a stone. 

It was neither the time nor place to gratify his curiosity as to 
the identity of his foe. There might be more ruffians where those 
came from in the nullah, and he had no other weapon with which 
to repel them; so, striking his spurs into his horse, he galloped 
on. This, however, was that poor animal’s last spurt; before he 
had gone a mile farther he gave in, and neither force nor persua- 
sion could get even a footpace out of him; he was foundered. 
Then Layton girded up his loins to run. He was by no means 
equipped for speed; for, beside his knapsack, which he now trans- 
ferred from his horse to his own back, he had his pistols to carry. 
Most persons under these circumstances, since he had no more 
ammunition, would have discarded them; but Layton was a law- 


NUMBER TWO. 


73 


yer, accustomed to consider the weight of evidence, and, on the 
whole, thought it wiser to retain them. His mind rapidly re- 
viewed the situation. Of the identity of the Hottentot he was 
convinced, and he had a shrewd suspicion that his ally had been 
no other than the man Brownrigg; the instrument with which he 
had been attacked had certainly been a ship’s cutlass, which seem- 
ed, at all events, to point him out as a sailor; while the warning 
words and glance of the young midshipman made his suspicions 
trebly strong. Now if, as he believed, he had been the proposed 
victim of a conspiracy, its object— though it had failed in its im- 
mediate intent, which had certainly been nothing less than his 
murder— ;Would be equally obtained b}’^ his detention in the colo- 
ny in connection with a criminal trial. He resolved, therefore, to 
say nothing of what had occurred until, at all events, he was well 
on his way with Edith on board the Ganges. The silence of the 
other two parties concerned in the adventure might be relied upon, 
and the effect of it as regarded himself would only be to put him 
on his guard against those foes who were still alive, and whose 
unscrupulousuess was now only too manifest. Upon the whole, 
this determination did credit to his good-sense and discernment. 
The only thing he wanted — a common thing with men of his pro- 
fession and too practical turn— was a little moonshine. The dusk 
had now almost turned to dark, and speed avails nothing, even to 
the swiftest, in such cases; they may even be running the wrong 
way. He picked his way with his eyes on the ground, seeking in 
vain for the wheel-tracks. 

Suddenly on the quiet night there broke the thunder of a ship’s 
gun. On the one hand, it was a bad sign, for it showed that Cap- 
tain Head was getting very impatient; on the other, it was a good 
sign-post, for it pointed out to him the direction in which to go. 
It seemed to him, as he started off again at full speed, that he 
should never forget that moment, nor could experience another so 
pregnant with perils and anxieties. If he did not forget it, how- 
ever, it was not because it was never to find its parallel. 

Presently the hills that had limited his horizon opened out; the 
full moon swam forth in splendor, and he beheld the great bay, 
with the Ganges on its bosom, and in the foreground the boat’s 
crew with their oars in the water, and the co.xswain standing up 
in the stern searching the land for his belated passenger. 

There were other eyes on board the ship itself, that were em- 
ployed, and even more anxiously, on the same quest. The party 
from Cape Town had themselves arrived on board somewlwt be- 
hind their time, and found the captain in a fume. He had been 
consulling that seaman’s oracle, the barometer, and it had coun- 
selled flight. In spite of the quiet look of things, the wind was 
rising, and promised to be no mere capful; on the other hand, 
it was a sou’wester, ami favorable to the ship’s course. Under 
these circumstances, to be kept hanging about in Simon’s Bay for 
a single passenger was not to be endured by a commander with a 


74 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


keen sense of duty. Mr. Layton was a great friend of his, but 
there are limits even to personal friendship; and if the young man 
imagined that because he had a regard for him he would keep the 
Ganges waiting while he finished a game of billiards in CapeTown, 
he would find himself dashedly mistaken. 

“ Hang the fellow! why don’t he come?” exclaimed the captain, 
irascibly. 

“Can’t say, sir,” said Mr. Bates, who had himself come aboard 
with exemplary punctuality, even before his leave of absence had 
expired. “ I suppose he is amusing himself somewhere.” 

“I’ll amuse him, and be dashed to him! Fire a gun, Mr. 
Bates.” 

In the hour of duty (and anger) one is apt to forget ^matters, 
save the one immediately in hand. The captain did not remem- 
ber that the third mate and Layton were not on very good terms, 
or notice that the explanation he had given of that gentleman’s 
delay was not exactly one that would have been offered by a 
peace-maker. 

Edith was sitting by herself in an obscure corner of the deck, 
racked by anxiety and apprehension. She had passed a wretched 
couple of days; for nothing is so distasteful to us, when we do 
not relish them, as amusements, especially when partaken of in 
uncongenial company. Once or twice in Cape Town she had 
caught sight of Layton going out by himself, and designedly avoid- 
ing her. She knew the reason of it, of course, but it had dis- 
tresed her, and she was longing to tell him so, passionately desir- 
ous to make up with loving words for their forced estrangement. 
The companionship of her relatives had brought her no comfort; 
she felt that it had effected no genuine reconciliation between 
them ; it had not been even a patching up. Mr. Norbury, indeed, 
had spoken to her without harshness, but also, as it had seemed 
to her, with a certain ill-concealed air of triumph, as though her 
acceptance of his invitation had been the acknowledgment of 
her defeat; while Eleanor had not troubled herself to hide the 
confirmed dislike with which she regarded her; and now, though 
she knew that Charley’s intention was to follow them from Cape 
Town immediately, he had not yet arrived! What could have 
delayed him? had he lost his way, or met with some accident in 
one of those horrid nullahs? How lonely and miserable she felt! 
The report of the gun startled her from these reflections, but filled 
her with new alarms. In the agitation and confusion of her mind, 
it seemed to bode ill tidings. 

“ What is the matter, Mr. Redmayne?” she inquired, hurriedly, 
of the second mate, who happened to be passing. 

“It is a signal to the boat,” he answered, gently. “ The cap- 
tain is getting impatient, that is all.” 

“But not a signal for its return, surely? He will never let it 
come back without — that is, he would not leave any passenger 
behind and sail without him?” 


NUMBER TWO. 


75 


“Well, you see, Miss Norbury, the Ganges is not a passenger 
ship, and, indeed, if it were — But there, I have no doubt Mr. 
Layton will turn up in time.” 

The boat could be distinctly seen a few oars’ length from the 
shore; it was motionless save for the rise and fall of the wave, 
and evidently in waiting for some one. With the midshipman 
in charge and his passenger, there should have been eight persons 
in all, whereas only six could be made out through the glasses. 

“Who is in command of that boat, Mr. Bates?” inquired the 
captain, angrily. 

“ Mr. Lewis Conolly, sir.” 

“Then why the deuce doesn’t he obey orders? Fire another 
gun, sir.” 

Before the order could be obeyed a man was seen running 
down to the shore, the boat was pulled in, and he jumped into it, 
and it was under way in a moment. 

“There are only seven of them yet,” muttered the captain. 
There was more chagrin than passion in his tone this time. 

“The boat’s crew are all right, sir; I can make out six oars,” 
observed Mr. Bates, complacently. 

“Yes, but not Mr. Layton. I call you to witness that I have 
given him an hour and a half to make up his leeway, and I can 
do no more.” 

Mr. Bates gave an assenting salute. He knew his captain well, 
and understood when a reply was required of him and when not. 
Mr. Norbury, who had drawn near to them, had not this advan- 
tage. He interposed with the praiseworthy intention of strength- 
ening the hands of authority. 

‘ ‘ The public service must, of course, be attended to, and is to 
be preferred to all private considerations.” 

“I don’t want to be told my duty, sir,” observed the captain, 
curtly, by any dashed interfering landsman that ever was littered.” 

Mr. Norbury turned very red, but remained silent under this 
wholly unexpected rebuke, as the boat drew nearer and disclosed 
the fact beyond all doubt that there was no passenger. Then all 
traces of annoyance disappeared from his countenance. Mr. Bates 
and he interchanged a meaning and well-satisfied smile. 

Presently the captain moved away to where Edith was sitting. 
She had a pair of field-glasses in her hand, with which she was 
regarding the approaching boat with the utmost iutentness. 

“My dear Miss Norbury — I mean Miss Edith,” he said, hur- 
riedly, “I am compelled, with very great reluctance, to sat sail 
without Mr. Layton; he is doubtless detained by some accident 
in Cape Town; and rather than you should be left in a state of 
distress and doubt about him, I will strain my duty, for 3'’our 
sake, so far as to touch there, which I had not intended to do.” 

Edith rose from her seat and involuntarily held 'Out her hand, 
which the old fellow gallantly took. 

“I cannot express to you. Captain Head,” she murmured with 


Y6 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


tears in her voice, “the obligation under which your kind inten- 
tion has placed me. I shall never forget it to my dying day, but 
I am happy to say that any departure from your plans is unnec- 
essary so far as Mr. Layton is concerned; he is rowing with the 
rest in the boat — I think you call it Number Two.” 

“It is certain that he is not Number Two in somebody’s esti- 
mation,” returned the captain, as he took the glass from her. 
“By gad, you’re right, Miss Edith. It seems that the eyes of love 
are sharper than those of a ship’s watch. . . . Mr. Bates, Mr. Lay- 
ton is in the* boat, after all, I am glad to see. Who is the man 
that is missing?” 

The answer was a long time coming, and when it did come it 
was delivered in a most lugubrious tone. 

“ Well, sir, so far as I can make out, it’s John Brownrigg who 
is left behind.” 

“A good thing too— the troublesome, drunken dog. Now get 
the boat on board, and be smart with it — and pipe all hands to 
make sail.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

PRESENTIMENTS. 

It was in accordance with the course of conduct on which 
Layton had determined that he had ieclined the seat offered to 
him by Conolly in the stern of the boat, and volunteered to fill the 
place vacated by Brownrigg at the oar. It was certain that the 
midshipman would have been full of questions as to the reason 
of his friend’s delay, which would have been difficult to parry in 
any case, and the more so since the' thread of the matter was al- 
ready in the young gentleman’s hand. 

Except tliat he had left his foundered horse on the same road 
on which the dead bodies of Brownrigg and the Hottentot would 
presentl}^ be found, there was nothing whatever to connect Layton 
with their decease, and for the present, at all events, he felt it was 
the safer plan to keep what had happened to himself. 

Hence it was that for a few minutes the hope that he had seen 
the last of the young lawyer liad, as we know, been raised in Mr. 
Norbury’s breast, and the fear of it in that of the captain. To 
the latter no explanation of his delay was necessary; a few apol- 
ogetic words about the breaking down of his steed was taken by 
the good-natured but peppery old sailor as an excuse in full, and 
in the performance of his nautical duties (which were soon des- 
tined to be pressing enough) he would probably have forgotten 
all about the matter had it not been recalled to his attention. 
With Edith, on the other hand, concealment was more difficult. 
Love is not only proverbially importunate, but “keen to track 
suggestion to its inmost cell.” One reads of a telltale glance,” 
but an averted look, or a want of promptness in reply, equally 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


77 


well tells a man’s secret, or at all events reveals that he has one, 
to the woman who loves him. In ten minutes Layton had put 
Edith in possession of his whole story with as great completeness 
as any unwilling witness he had himself ever turned inside out 
in a court of justice. 

“Great heavens! they meant to murder you,” she exclaimed 
with horror. 

“If they didn’t, they ‘made believe’ in a manner that would 
have made their fortunes on any stage,” returned the young man, 
dryly. “A spear between one’s ear and one’s head, and a cutlass 
aimed at one’s cheek-bone — ” 

“My father’s brother — my own flesh and blood!” interrupted 
the girl in accents of bitter loathing. Then he understood that 
she had not been referring to the actual perpetrators of the crime 
in question, but to him who had set them on. 

“Nay, nay, we have no right, my dear, to jump to any such 
conclusion as that,” he answered. “It is even possible — though 
I confess I doubt it — that my money, and not my life, may have 
been the object of my assailant; but at all events it is unfair to 
conclude without proof that your uncle had anything to do with 
the matter.” 

She shook her head and moaned. “He had, he had. I am 
sure of it, Charley. I understand now what that air of cruel 
triumph meant which he wore to-day and yesterday; he thougiit 
‘that he had made sure that you and I would never meet again.” 

“ That is a great deal to gather from a look, I must say, my 
darling,” said Layton, remonstratingly — “much as I can read in 
yours.” 

In truth he was as fully convinced of Mr. Norbury’s complici- 
ty in Brownrigg’s crime as herself, but his professional instincts 
prevented him from taking it for granted upon mere suspicion, 
while he was naturally desirous to spare her what after all might 
be an unnecessary shock to her feelings. Later on in the even- 
ing, however, he had, for the first time during the last six-and- 
twenty hours, an opportunity of speaking to young Conolly, the 
result of which settled his views upon the matter. 

“Pray tell me, sir, what happened to you on shore?” inquired 
the boy, earnestly. “ I am sure you had some far worse advent- 
ure, though you would not speak about it just now, than losing 
your way or your horse.” 

“Let us take events in their order, my lad,” returned the bar- 
rister. “ Tell me first how you came to give me that extraordinary 
warning yesterday morning, when Mr. Bates and Brownrigg were 
talking together: ‘ Don’t go; your life is in danger.’” 

“Because I believed it to be so, Mr. Layton, and from those 
very men. Of course I don’t like Mr Bates — nobody does, for 
that matter— or I should say, perhaps, that I am well aware he 
does not like me, which prejudices a fellow. Still, I feel well 
convinced that the third mate is a most unscrupulous scoundrel. 


18 


A TEINCE OF TIJE BLOOD. 


He attracts to himself all the ruffians in the ship, Brownrigg, 
whom, I am thankful to say, we seem to have now got rid of, 
was about the worst. Do you think Mr. Bates would have given 
him leave, just out of ‘ punishment,’ too, as he was, if he had not 
been a pal of his? The night before last it was my duty to visit 
the fellow in the black-hole, as you would call it. It is not a 
pleasant place, but quite good enough for a man who has made 
a hog of himself, as he had. My impression is that Mr. Bates 
had given him an extra allowance or two of rum in return 
for some promise to do you an injury; for, drunk as he was, he 
kept muttering something about the third mate and yourself 
which I could not understand. My appearance on my rounds 
no doubt brought you to his recollection as having been alwaj's 
a friend to me. ‘A deuced fine fellow, that ’longshore friend of 
yours,’ he murmured, menacingly, ‘ but he’ll never come on board 
the Ganges again.’ ‘Why not?’ I inquired, carelessly. ‘Why 
not?’ he grunted. ‘Because Mr. Bates and I — eh, what are you- 
talking about?’ He meant, of course, what was he talking about, 
and had he not better hold his tongue; and nothing more could 
I get out of the brute. But, notwithstanding his muddled con- 
dition, I could not but think that he referred to some plot that 
was really being hatched against you, and I determined to let 
you know of it if I could. I had no chance of seeing 3^ou, how- 
ever, till you came on deck next morning, and you know what 
occurred then; how Brownrigg came up to the third mate and 
asked for leave and got it. That made me more suspicious of 
him than ever, since, if anything had been already agreed upon 
between them, to separate from one another was the very thing 
they would have done as a blind.” 

“My dear lad, you have mistaken your profession, which should 
have been the same as my own,” said Layton, smiling; “the de- 
duction was most just.” 

“Indeed, sir, I thought it no laughing matter,” returned the 
boy, evidently a little piqued at his communication being received 
so lightly. “I did really believe that your life was in danger.” 

“And you did your best to save it,” returned Layton, warmljL 
“You have behaved like a man, and deserve my fullest confi- 
dence as well as gratitude.” 

Then he told him all that had happened. 

“Mr. Bates ought to be hung at the yard-arm,” was the mid- 
shipman’s indignant comment. 

“No doubt that is a fate that should overtake more than one 
of us, if all had their dues,” was the dry reply. “But to accuse 
a ruffian without proof is only to put him on his guard. We 
must not bark unless we can bite, my lad. I can trust you, I 
know, in great matters. Can I trust you in comparatively small 
ones— such as to hold your tongue, for instance?” 

Layton felt that he could rely on the lad, but did not think it 
necessary to enlighten him as to the “first causes” of what had 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


79 


SO nearly proved a catastrophe. It was better to let him suppose 
that personal dislike had been the motive of Mr. Bates’s intended 
crime rather than that a price (as he was convinced was the case) 
had been, as it were, put upon his head by Mr. Norbury. To 
have hinted at such an atrocity would have made it difficult for 
the impulsive young midshipman to behave with due respect to 
that gentleman, whereby he would certainly have made him his 
enemy. Moreover, he had scruples on Edith’s account about dis- 
closing to an outsider, however friendly, the full extent of her 
uncle’s villauy. On the other hand, having received this corrob- 
oration of it, he thought there should be no such concealment 
of the matter from Edith herself, if indeed there remained any- 
thing to conceal. After that expression of her own convictions 
upon the subject, there could be no further pain for her in the 
way of revelation, and he felt that he ought no longer to argue 
against them. He did not forget the eagerness with which she 
had recently caught at the prospect of a reconciliation with her 
unscrupulous relative, and trembled to think that she should ever 
again commit herself to his tender mercies. 

Since the young barrister had returned to the ship, neither Mr. 
Norbury nor Eleanor had obtruded their attentions upon Edith. 
In her cousin’s case, indeed, this was not surprising, since it had 
been obvious that what advances had hitherto proceeded from her 
had been made upon compulsion. Her uncle’s avoidance of her, 
on the other hand, might naturally have resulted from apprehen- 
sion. Supposing him to be guilty of having prompted the late 
attempt upon Layton’s life, he might well be alarmed lest the 
other might have escaped from the snare with some knowledge, 
or at least suspicion, of him who had set* the springe. For all 
Mr. Norbury knew, Brownrigg might not only have failed in his 
attempt, but have been captured and confessed. Ignorant of the 
position in which he stood as regarded his enemy, he might well 
have been afraid to open his mouth. There was, therefore, no 
more hinderance than before to Layton’s conversing with Edith 
alone. 

A little drawing-room opening from the cuddy, intended for 
the use of the ladies, but rarely patronized by Eleanor, had been 
often used by the lovers as a trysting-place in the evening, and 
they resorted to it now. In the daytime, and in bad weather, a 
round-house on deck served the same romantic purpose, but it 
was more subject to incursions; on the present occasion it Avould 
have been anything but a spot “for whispering lovers made7” for 
the noise on deck was terrible. The ship was flying before the 
wind, though with much less of sail than had been set a^few 
hours ago, and the storm was increasing every moment. Even 
in the snug little drawing-room the two young people found it 
diflicult to hear each other speak, which necessitated their sitting 
close together on the sofa; while the frequent jolts and jars from 
the shock of the seas made an attitude which a chaperon would 


80 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOI). 


have called “imprudent,” namely, their sitting with their arms 
round each other’s waists, not only prudent but compulsory. 
Even in this position, so admirably adapted for “soft nothings,” 
they had to speak at the very top of their voices — a requirement 
which, perhaps, never enters into the ideas of lovers who go to 
sea. This was the more anomalous, as the subject of their talk 
deeply affected the character of other people; but, on the other 
hand, there was no fear of eavesdroppers. Not a word could be 
heard on deck save that which was uttered through the speaking- 
trumpet; and matters were not much better below. 

“ I have been talking to our young friend Conolly, my darling, 
and I am sorry to say he corroborates your view of my adventure 
with Brownrigg,” said Layton. “It was a plot devised between 
him and Mr. Bates, it seems ; and as Mr. Bates has nothing to 
gain by my departure from this world, I am compelled to look 
behind him for the real culprit. While there was any doubt you 
will do me the justice to say that I gave your uncle the benefit of 
it; but now 1 am afraid there is none.” 

“I am convinced of it,” said Edith, sadly; “all is over be- 
tween that man and me. If my money was necessary to him he 
should have had it for the asking. But that, it seems, is not 
suflicient. Worse than a highwayman, he does not say to me, 

‘ Your money or your life,’ but ‘ Your life’ only.” 

“Not yours, my darling. Even he, let us hope, would shrink 
from harming one so innocent as yourself.” 

“ And is not your life my life?” she answered, reproachfully. 
“If he had taken you from me, what would life have left worth 
living for? In any case, no ties of blood shall bind me any lon- 
ger to one who is a murderer in his heart. I say again that I 
have done with him. Oh, would that I could think that he had 
done with us !” 

“ He has done his worst already, my pretty one, and indeed it 
was bad enough,” said Layton, reassuringly; “ but having missed 
his aim, he will be very careful not to attempt a second crime. 
For all he knows, the man Brownrigg may yet be alive to witness 
against him; or, which would be the same thing in the end, to 
witness against his confederate. As for me, forewarned is fore- 
armed; and be sure I am safe enough in any case. I shall make 
it my business before we land in India to collect such evidence 
against your uncle as, though it may fail to bring his attempt on 
my life home to him, will be sufficient, I flatter myself, to make 
him glad to get rid of me on my own terms — which will include 
the possession of his niece. I hnve friends in Calcutta who will 
receive you on landing; and before a month has gone over our 
heads we shall be man and wife. That is not a prospect which 
should terrify you, my darling. Why do you tremble? Does 
the storm affright you?” 

“No, no; it is not that,” she answered, with a shudder. “ I 
am filled with presentiments of evil.” 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


81 


“That is not like yourself, Edith. A terrible catastrophe in- 
deed has threatened us ; but the cloud which held the bolt has 
passed over our heads, and now all will be sunshine. As soon as 
the captain is at liberty to attend to anything but his ship, I shall 
lay the whole case before him in confidence; he is an honest 
man and will see justice done. Once beneath his aegis, no harm 
can at all events happen to us on board the Ganges. Of course I 
wish that we had not been so scrupulous while we were yet in 
England. Had we known your uncle for what he is, we should 
have paid less heed to his authority. But out of evil good has 
come; his wickedness has driven us into each other’s arms.” 

If tlie young barrister’s eloquence was not that of Demosthenes, 
he fulfilled that orator’s precepts of suiting the action to the word 
and the word to the action. Cradled in his embrace, and rocked 
by the storm, Edith lay pale and silent; her eyes regarded him 
with the tenderest affection, but were full of tears. 

“I wish that I could think with you, Charley,” she presently 
said. “ I wish that I could feel that our misfortunes were end- 
ed,* and not, as I fear, only beginning. I dare not even think of 
such happiness as you have pictured for us, and so soon. It 
seems more likely, somehow, that one of us should die and leave 
the other desolate.” 

“Even then, my darling, we should belong to each other still,” 
answered her lover, smiling. “‘Faithful and true, living or 
dead,’ as we used to sing together, you know. Come; you are 
tired, and your nerves are overstrung to-night; I must see you 
to your cabin.” 

It would not have been easy for her to get there unaided by 
Layton’s stalwart arm. ‘The incidents that seem on land to hap- 
pen to a drunken man, such as that of the floor rising up and 
striking him, actually do take place at sea during such a storm as 
was now raging over the Indian Ocean. She lay listening to it for 
hours; not in terror of it, like her neighbor, Aunt Sophia, but op- 
pressed with the sense of a less material danger. It was a spectre 
that refused to take a recognizable shape, but she never lost con- 
sciousness of its presence. To the dreadful diapason of the storm, 
the refrain of the old song quoted by her lover seemed constantly 
to adapt itself — 

“Faithful and true, living or dead.” 

but not with the old meaning. Death was no longer that im- 
probable alternative of which we speak with a light heart ;-its 
sombre and wide-spread wings seemed to eclipse the sun of hope. 

6 


82 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE GALE. 

I WAS once the only layman in the company of a large circle of 
eminent doctors, who were discoursing, with that frankness which 
is usual to members of that calling when they get together, of the 
ills to which tlesli is heir. and of the little which science can do to 
mitigate them. If Nature were but left to herself, they said, all 
would be well, or at all events, ever so much better. It was the 
nostrums of the faculty — meaning, of course, those members of 
the faculty not present — which did half the mischief. I listened 
with amazement, regretting the amount I had disbursed to what, 
as it now appeared, was such little purpose, in doctors’ fees. I 
thought of the woman in the Scriptures who had spent half her 
substance in physicians without being bettered by them, but rather 
the contrary. 

When we adjourned to the smoking-room I found myself by the 
side of one of the wisest-looking of these gentlemen, whose very 
face, had I called him in in extremis, would have been a comfort 
to me, I’m sure, before I had listened to the late general confes- 
sion, and, encouraged by his affability, I ventured to ask him pri- 
vately whether the talk of his brethren, in which I noticed he 
alone had not joined, was to be taken literally or with a grain of 
salt. “A grain! say rather with a bushel,” -was his contemptu- 
ous reply. “ It is all very well to cry ‘ stinking fish ’ when there’s 
nobody to hear you ” (I bowed in mechanical acknowledgment of 
this compliment to my personal importance, but he took no no- 
tice). “The fact is, perhaps. Nature is by no means the alma 
wnter which she is described to be. She is much more like a 
step-mother. Suppose you are struck down by illness to-morrow, 
there are plenty of people who will be found to tell you that the 
best thing to be done is ‘to leave things to Nature,’ but the sim- 
ple fact is that what she’s after is just this, sir — Nature wants to 
kill you.” 

This gentleman’s novel view astonished me not less than that 
of his friends had done; but upon consideration it seems at least 
the more correct of the two. It is the fashion to speak of Nature 
as beneficent, but in her sublimest aspects — and it is as fair to take 
them as illustrative of her character as to judge of man by his 
actions when he is most deeply moved— she is very far from be- 
nignant or even humane. When the elements, for example, throw 
oil the mastery of man and appear, as one might say, in their true 
colors, these are not rose-color, but lurid. Fire becomes the de- 
vouring element and water the devastating flood. There is no 
ruth nor mercy in either of them, nor is any to be found in that 


THE GALE. 


83 


which works with both with such demoniacal and malignant 
force that it has been personified in Holy Writ as the Priiice of 
the Powers of the Air. A storm at sea to those exposed to its 
frantic violence is far from being the sublime spectacle which it 
alfords to those who behold it from terra firma ; it is only wind 
and wave, but it is wind and wave possessed of devils. Shore- 
going folks have a vague idea that a storm passes from the face 
of the deep almost like passion from the face of a man, or that, 
at the most, it endures, like a wet day on land, for twelve hours 
or so. They have no conception of a struggle between giant 
forces prolonged, it may be, for weeks — an unequal contest dur- 
ing which, though courage may still hold out in that unyielding 
fort, the soul, physical strength relaxes and fails as the lamp of 
hope grows dim. It is an experience which must be undergone 
to be understood. To those who have only seen her fawning at 
their feet on the silver sands in summer-time the tender mercies 
of the cruel sea are unintelligible. 

It was the fate of those on board the Ganges to experience them 
to the uttermost. From the evening when she left Simon’s Bay 
the tempest had not ceased to pour its fury upon her tenants for 
a single hour; day and night seemed almost one to them, engulfed 
in the green walls of sea, or only lifted out of them to meet the 
descending clouds. 

What occurred in vision to one of the most poetic of poets, and 
one who was, never more at home than when at sea, had become 
their actual experience : 

“ ’Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail 
Are flickering in ribbons before the fierce gale ; 

* * -sc- * * * * 

The good ship seems splitting; it creaks as a tree 
While an earthquake is splintering its root, ere the blast 
Of the whirlwind that stripped it of branches is past. 
******* 

The heavy dead hulk 

On the living sea rolls, an inanimate bulk.” 

It would have been impossible on the fifth day of her troubles for 
a landsman to have recognized the gallant Ganges in her decrepit 
and shorn condition. On the second day it had become necessary 
to cut away the mizzen-mast, and on the third the main-mast, and 
yet the wreck’flew before the gale more swiftly far than with all 
her sails set before a favoring wind. In what part of the Indian 
Ocean she now was no one on board could tell with certainty. 
It was only known that she had been driven hundreds of miles 
out of her course and was driving still; more than twenty men 
had been swept overboard, and there was no time to mourn them; 
the consciousness of their loss was mainly brought home to the 
survivors in the increased tax upon their physical energies. 
There was little sleep for any man, and little food. As for the 
cabin passengers, they got what the^ could in their out-stretched 


84 


A PEINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


hands from the steward, regular meals being out of the question. 
Wliat Aunt Sophia thought of the sea now might be conjectured; 
but she gave no expression to her views, and if she had they would 
have found no auditor. The yell of the wind drowned all sounds 
save those which itself made: the roar of the maddened sea, the 
straining of the ship’s timbers, or the bursting of a sail with an 
explosion like the crack of doom. The horse-play of a storm at 
sea is like that of our roughs at home— reckless, aimless, and ma- 
lignant. There was not a lucid interval in all its madness — no 
lull wherein the watchers, who were no longer, alas! the keepers 
of the storm-fiend, could snatch an hour’s repose. 

Some days were not, however, so bad as others. Then the three 
miserable women would crawl up from their stifling cabins to the 
round-house upon deck to look uijon the fate that threatened 
them, which seemed less horrible than the imagination of it amid 
the darkness and chaos below. As in the great water-floods on 
land the wildest and most savage animals will collect with the 
tamest upon the knolls and spurs that offer a temporary security, 
and forget the instincts of tooth and claw in their common peril, so 
was it with their human congeners on board the Ganges. ]\Ir. Nor- 
bury and his daughter no longer kept aloof from Edith, and even 
met Mr. Layton without a scowl. On the other hand, there was 
no attempt at reconciliation. Considering the short time which, 
in all probability, they had to live, it was not, perhaps, worth their 
while to make any overtures of friendship — while to confess to 
having committed a wrong was foreign to their natures. Eleanor 
would sometimes make room for Edith by her side as she came 
staggering in to their common place of shelter, assisted by her 
lover, and Mr. Norbury would welcome her with a stony smile. 
He was not a coward, but his helplessness and want of occupation 
compelled him to brood upon the past, and perhaps the future; 
and it is probable that neither of them was a cheerful subject of 
contemplation. They were folks upon their death- beds whom 
the doctors had given up. Mr. Norbury had once put the ques- 
tion to the captain, “Do you think there is any hope for us?” and 
he had replied, with significant brevity, “I do not;” after which 
the man of business had placed a padlock on his lips. He had 
perhaps so much to repent of that he knew not where to begin, or 
his nature, less reckless than indomitable, made him averse to 
“ hedge ” even on the brink of ruin. 

As for Edith, she took her fate for granted without asking. 
Most of her time was spent with Layton, and in his arms, yet not 
as earthly lovers. The presentiment that had oppressed her when 
they left Simon’s Bay had now almost been accomplished, and 
was shared by both of them. They might be united in the world 
where there was no giving in marriage, but not in this ; their 
faithfulness was to be proved not in life but in death. It was the 
sense of what became her as a Christian woman that caused her 
to leav^ him occasionally to seek the companionship of her rela- 


THE GALE. 


85 


lives: it gave them the opportunity of making friends with her, 
and at all events showed them that she, on her part, had no malice 
or hatred in her heart towards them. At such times Layton, 
having escorted her to the door of the round-house, would make 
his way as best he could to some part of the deck that offered 
comparative shelter, and wait there till she required his services 
to descend. Ilis presence in the same place would, he was well 
aware, be not only unacceptable to the others, but would arouse 
those very feelings of hostility and bitterness which Edith would 
fain have allayed. So it was on a certain day less tempestuous 
than its predecessors, but with no more sun in the sky than in 
their hearts. 

As the wreck— for the ship now hardly deserved a better name 
— drove before the gale, a mist drove with her, through rents of 
which could be occasionally seen the great gray waves or dark 
green hollows which had so long formed their lookout. Aunt 
Sophia and Edith were alone in the round-house, but it was un- 
derstood that Mr. Norbury and his daughter were about to join 
them. Layton, as usual, ensconced himself as best he could under 
the lee of the weather-bulwark and near the helm. There were 
two men at the wheel, and Mr. Bates close to them occasionally 
issuing an order, or a caution, in stentorian tones. 

The ship still obeyed her helm, but only on great compulsion 
and in a half-hearted manner. It was all the helmsmen could do 
to keep her running before the wind in order to escape the ter- 
rific seas that were in chase of her. It was terrible to look at 
them; yet they had a fascination for Layton which he could not 
resist. Each was like a great wall of water which was about to 
overtake and pass through the ship. When it had gone by, sweep- 
ing all that was not fast along with it, it was with a sort of dull 
amazement that he perceived that she still floated. There was 
a life- belt hanging over him — the last of some dozen that had been 
on board. He found himself wondering how it hung there like 
a lonely leaf in late November which has survived storm and 
rain, and also why, for such things had long been without their 
use. He had lost none of his physical powers, but, except when 
Edith was by, had become strangely apathetic, as men are wont 
to do who have lived for days face to face with death. Sudden- 
ly he heard a cry from Bates, louder than usual, and beheld a 
mountain of green water close upon them; the next moment he 
was drenched, breathless, and blinded. When he came to_him- 
self he became conscious that other hands besides his own were 
clinging to the same ring in the bulkhead. 

“ What has happened, Mr. Bates?” 

“We are pooped; the round -house has been swept away,” 
gasped his companion. 

“The round-house!” His eyes fell upon the vacant space 
which it had occupied a moment before. “Great heavens! 
where are the ladies?” 


86 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“Overboard,” was the ghastly rejoinder. 

Layton snatched at the life- belt, and the next instant had leaped 
on the taffrail and into the sea. 

“The man is mad,” murmured the other: but he leaned over 
and -sought for him with his eyes, nevertheless. As if satisfied 
for the moment with the ruin it had wrought, the sea had lulled 
a little, and it was possible to mark the human speck for a mo- 
ment or two in that ocean of foam. Something happened in that 
brief space known only to two human beings. Then, with a 
white face and a terror in his eyes which the strife of the ele- 
ments had failed to evoke, Mr. Bates made his way below. 

As he did so a vision appeared painted out on the mist, and be- 
held only by the men at the wheel. A great ship without a rag 
of sail seemed to fly by them, not parallel to the Ganges, but at 
an angle with her. Her masts were standing, and there were 
men on her deck. It was incomprehensible that she should not 
only have survived such a gale but have suffered so little. The 
two spectators looked at each other in horror. “It is the Fly- 
ing Dutchman,” exclaimed one. Ilis companion nodded and 
turned his quid in his cheek. “ Then that will finish us,” 

The prophecy was about to be fulfilled. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ME.BATES’S NEWS. 

It was with some difficulty, notwithstanding his familiarity 
with the route and his excellent sea-legs, that Mr. Bates found his 
way to the cuddy. The deck, for reasons of his own, quite un- 
connected with the state of affairs there, was just now distasteful 
to him; and besides, he had news to tell somebody. It may seem 
strange that under such conditions of peril it should have been 
so. To a landsman, under the same circumstances, the state of 
the vessel would have been the sole subject of interest, and the 
only news worth speaking of a change in' the weather. But to a 
sailor his ship is his home, even when she has become a wreck, 
and life, until she sinks, goes on there for him with its aims and 
motives much as usual. In times even that look desperate he 
does not defer things of importance till he gets to dry laud and 
can consider matters, but grasps the skirts of happy chance as 
they sweep by and looks to the main one. 

Mr, Bates’s errand was to Mr. Norbury, at whose cabin door 
he knocked in a manner in which vehemence and caution were 
strangely mixed. It opened, of course, from the cuddy, which 
was vacant. No meal had been served there for many a day; the 
broad bare table looked dark and cheerless; the place itself, from 
which every article of movable furniture had long been rernoved, 
or been broken where it stood, most dismal. There was little fear 


MR. BATES’s NEWS, 


87 


of interruption or of eavesdroppers; but it was necessary to beat 
at the door with violence to overcome the tumult that reigned 
everywhere, and as he did so Mr. Bates kept an eye over liis 
shoulder. The door was locked, but that did not necessarily 
imply that the tenant was within. It was Mr. Norbury’s habit 
to lock his door when he w’as absent. On the other hand, if else- 
where, where could he be? He was certainly not on deck, and 
could not therefore have been a witness to the catastrophe that 
had just occurred there. “Mr. Norbury,” shouted the third mate 
through the key-hole; then,“ Norbury, Norbury.” 

II is voice thus reiterating the other’s name in that solitary place 
had a grewsome sound, like that raised by one who, half supersti- 
tious and half sceptical, utters his own name in the dead of night 
alone, with the idea of rousing his familiar spirit. 

“Norbury, Norbury, let me in; I have great and terrible news 
for you.” 

“ What news?” 

Mr. Bates started and turned round, then uttered a shrill cry of 
terror and staggered against the cabin door. Close behind him, 
clinging to the table with both hands and peering over it, was 
Edith Norbury, pale as the ghost he deemed her to be, her long 
hair streaming down her neck, her eyes fixed on his own with 
agonized inquiry. “You have terrible news, you say. What is 
it? My uncle is not in his cabin; he is in the round-house.” 

The "sweat broke out upon Mr. Bates’s forehead. If this wom- 
an was really alive and was speaking truth, he had been calling 
on a dead man, and with what a purpose! He had been striving 
to inform a spirit already in hell (for so the position occurred to 
him) that the girl whom he hated, and the man whom he feared 
and had tried to slay, were both swept from his path. The man 
was certainly gone, but the girl was standing before his own eyes. 
Gradually the true state of affairs began to dawn upon him; but 
it was a very different matter to tell it to the ear for which it had 
been first intended, and to tell it to this girl. A heart that is not 
to be touched by pity will sometimes be moved by the conscious- 
ness of the commission of a wrong. In Edith’s presence the man 
trembled; his remorse for the moment gave his voice the sem- 
blance of sympathy. 

“If your uncle was in the round-house. Miss Edith, he has 
perished, for it has been swept away.” 

“ Great heavens! And Eleanor?” 

“ She has perished with him — I saw her washed overboard' with 
my own eyes.” 

“It is impossible— it is too horrible!” answered the girl, vehe- 
mently. “How conld you have seen them perish, when you 
came down here to speak to my uncle? I heard you calling to 
him; you said you had terrible news for him.” 

It would have been difficult even for one who was more accus- 
tomed to speak the truth than the third mate to state matters as 


88 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


they had actually occurred. It would have been embarrassin2^ 
enough to have to say, “ When I witnessed the catastrophe which 
has occurred to your cousin I took her for you; it was the tidings 
of j^our death which I was about to communicate to iMr. Nor- 
bury,”not, as it had seemed, with a superfluity of emotion. But 
unhappily there was so much more to say. 

“ I have told you the simple fact, Miss Edith; I saw the round- 
house swept away with your cousin, but 1 did not know Mr. Nor- 
bury was within it. No, it is useless for 5^011 to go on deck.” 
He seized her wrist as she was staggering towards the companion- 
ladder and detained her by main force. “1 will not permit you 
to do it; it would be dangerous in the last degree. There is no 
one there save those whom duty compels to be.” 

“Mr. Layton is there, I know.” 

“Not now.'' 

He uttered the words with an intentional significance, yet with- 
out meaning to be brutal; it was easier to hint curtly at what had 
happened than to explain it in set terms of an}" kind. 

“Not now! What in Heaven’s name do you mean?” she 
gasped. “ Where is he?” 

Mr. Bates was silent. It was a question, no doubt, very hard 
to answer; but to the girl’s searching and suspicious glance there 
seemed something more than embarrassment in his face. 

“ What have you done with him?” she exclaimed, with a fierce 
light in her eyes, seizing the ofticer by his loose sailor necker- 
chief. “Murderer! murderer! Help! help!” 

A door opened behind them and Aunt Sophia tottered out of 
her cabin. “Merciful Heaven !” she cried, “ what has happened ?” 
Then perceiving Edith engaged in a frantic struggle with she 
knew not whom, she swelled with her feeble voice the girl’s cries 
for assistance. 

Mr. Ainsworth and Lewis Conolly appeared simultaneously — 
the former from his cabin, the latter flying down the companion- 
ladder like a ball, but aligliting on his feet. At the sight of them 
Edith released her hold of the third mate. 

“ What is the matter?” inquired the clergyman, anxiously. 

“ You may well ask!” panted Mr. Bates. 

With one hand clinging to the table, Edith pointed to him with 
the other, “ That man is a murderer!” she gasped; “he has mur- 
dered my Charley!” 

The midshipman flew at his throat like a bull-pup, while Bates 
struck at him furiously; the paralysis which had seemed to seize 
him while in Edith’s hands disappeared in the case of this new 
assailant. Mr. Ainsworth threw himself between the two un- 
equal combatants with a vigor wholly unexpected, and separated 
them by main force, 

“ Shame upon you, to call yourselves Christian men,” he ex- 
claimed, reprovingly, “yet thus to fight upon the brink of the 
grave! Now, Mr. Bates, explain yourself.” 


MK. Bates’s news. 


89 


“ I have nothing to explain — the matter does not concern me 
at all,” answered the third mate, sullenlj^, “but I had some bad 
news to tell, and this young lady has confused the bearer of it 
with its cause.” 

“That man has murdered my Charley!” reiterated Edith. Her 
body quivered and trembled as much with excitement as with tlie 
rolling and pitching of the ship, but the out-stretched arm with 
which she denounced her enemy was stiff as steel. 

“There must be some mistake, Miss Edith,” murmured the 
clergyman, soothingly; “Mr. Layton was alive and well ten min- 
utes ago, when Mr. Conolly and I brought you two ladies from 
the round-house.” 

“It is true enough, however, that he is dead,” said the third 
mate, curtly. “But as to my having murdered him, as the young 
lady says, it is she, if anybody, who has done it.” 

“ What does the man mean? he must be mad!” exclaimed Mr. 
Ainsworth. 

“ Well, this is how it happened; Mr. Layton and I were near 
the wheel when the wave came that pooped us. The ronnd-house 
was swept away, and with it, as we both thought. Miss Edith yon- 
der. Mr. Layton, seeing her go overboard (though I suppose it was 
Miss Eleanor), jumped on to the tafirail and leaped into the sea 
after her. That’s the simple fact, and I don’t see how I could 
have stopped him, or how it was my fault.” 

“Mr. Bates is right so far, my dear young lady,” said the cler- 
gyman, tenderly. “ It behooves us, no matter how heavy may be 
our bereavement, to be just; if our dear brother has been takeri 
from us, we may be sure if in the realms of bliss his soul could be 
troubled by anything it would be so by an accusation made on his 
account against an innocent man,” 

“What need had I to hurt him, ” muttered the third mate, 
“even if I had a wish to do it? I suppose such a sea as this is 
enough to drown any one without hitting him over the head.” 

Mr. Ainsworth threw a searching glance on the speaker which 
seemed to say, “This man doth protest too much,” but his atten- 
tion was suddenly called to Edith, who would have fallen to the 
ground had not the young midshipman caught her in his arms. 
The blood had left her face, her eyes were closed, her limbs were 
rigid. 

“ Hold her,” he cried, excitedly, “ while I run for Mr. Doyle.” 

“ No,” exclaimed Aunt Sophia, in an unwonted tone of author- 
ity. “Bring her into her cabin and leave her with me.” 

Her w'oman’s eyes perceived that her niece had only fainted, 
her woman’s heart recognized at once that the presence of any 
one of whose sympathy the girl was not assured would on her 
coming to herself be most painful to her; she would be in the 
lowest depths of distress and despair in any case, and if her grief 
should not have way it might even be fatal to her. Under Aunt 
Sophia’s guidance Mr. Ainsworth and the young midshipman car- 


90 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


ried her tenderly into her cabin and placed her upon the narrow 
bed. It seemed like laying the poor girl’s corpse in her coffin. 

The third mate remained outside, irresolute and disconcerted. 
Nothing had turned out- as he had expected. There was no need 
for his remaining in the cuddy, yet he hesitated to go on deck, 
where his duties called him. Presently the cabin door opened, 
and the two men came out. Conolly slowly made his w^ay up 
the companion, without even looking at Mr. Bates. His step had 
lost its spring, his young heart was heavy within him for Editii’s 
sake. 

Mr. Ainsworth addressed the third mate in the tone of a judge 
who cross-examines a witness: “ You say that Mr. Layton jumped 
overboard? Did you see him afterwards?” 

“ How could I?” was the sulky response. 

“ I mean, did you see him sink, sir?” 

“Well, no; he had a life-belt on him, but I saw him drown.” 

“A life-belt! How was that?” 

“ I suppose he thought that it might keep him up a bit. If he 
had been a sailor he would have known b^dter; in such a sea it 
would only prolong his fate. ” 

“Well, you have brought bad news to that innocent girl — news 
that will wreck her life, if it is Heaven’s will that she or any of 
us should live to remember this day. Let me ask you to make 
amends for it in some small degree. Do not tell her that Mr. 
Layton had a life-belt.” 

“Very good ; though there would have been no harm, I should 
have thought, in her believing that he jumped overboard after 
her.” 

“ It is not that, sir,” answered Mr. Ainsworth, angrily. “ Can 
you not understand that it was for her, and not for himself, that 
the brave fellow took that poor precaution? What I am afraid of 
is that in her ignorance of such matters she might still think that 
there is hope for him, and not face the miserable fact at once.” 

“Hope! how can there be hope for him, when I saw him — at 
least as good as saw him— drown with my owm eyes? How could 
a man live for five minutes in such a turmoil?” 

“Of course not — it is impossible,” sighed Mr. Ainsworth to 
himself. “Heaven give her strength to bear her burden.” 

A midshipman looking like a drowned mouse camp running 
down the companion. “ You are wanted on deck, Mr. Bates,” ho 
cried, with more excitement than respect. Then perceiving the 
clergyman^ he added, cheerfully, “ The clouds are lifting and the 
gale has abated, sir. There is hope for us still, Mr^Marston 
thinks.” 

“ Thanks, my lad.” Mr. Ainsworth smiled and nodded gravely. 
“ That will be hardly good news to this poor girl. It would be 
better, perhaps, for her if she never wmke to life again. God 
alone knows, however, what is the best for us.” 


THE WRECK. 


91 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE WRECK. 

Between Nature and human nature there are many analogies. 
The seasons have in particular been largely drawn upon by poets 
and divines to illustrate the vicissitudes of our own existence. As 
the earth has its winter, we are told, so has the human heart, and 
it will, if it waits long enough, find its spring-time. But Nature 
can always wait, which man cannot do, and during the process 
she suffers nothing. 

“In a drear-niglited December, 

Too happy, happy tree, 

Thy branches ne’er remember 
Their green felicity. 

The frost cannot undo them, 

With its sleety whistle through them. 

Nor the cold north wind prevent them from budding at their prime.” 

But we, alas! in our winter-time do remember, and “a sorrow’s 
crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.” 

If only we could be torpid till “the cold north winds” — the 
aching voids, the bitter and fruitless regrets — had blown over, 
life would be very different from what it is. When some poor 
woman, delicate and defenceless, but whom Fate, alas! deals no 
more mercifully with on that account, is suddenly struck down 
by its brutal hand, and after a little while of unconsciousness 
wakes to life and her new and painful burden, we call it coming 
to herself again, whereas, in fact, she is herself no longer. Though 
life is left to her, the light of it has been taken away, and hence- 
forward she gropes her way in a world that has been made dark 
to her. It is the usual fashion of mankind to speak of the great- 
est sorrow that can happen to a woman — the loss of a long-loved 
husband— as lasting but a year and a day ; well would it be for 
many a widow if this were true! There are thousands who never 
survive it, and if they smile, smile only for their children’s sake. 
We know infinitely less of the sorrows of our fellow-creatures 
than of their pleasures, and are impelled by various motives to 
ignore them, the meanest and most grovelling being the notion 
that in underrating human woe we are paying court to that Su- 
preme Being who, for some doubtless wise but inexplicable rea- 
son, permits its existence. 

As, however, in the administration of the knout in Russia the 
executioner will sometimes defeat his own object and the law’s 
by a too brutal stroke, so Fate in its blind fury will sometimes kill 
outright, or numb, where it has meant to only maim; and this lat- 


92 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


ter mistake it committed in Edith Norbiiry’s case. Days passed 
away after the fact of lier lover’s death had been communicated 
to her before the full capacity for pain returned to her— the shock 
of the news fell on her like a blow from a bludgeon and stunned 
her. Now and then she would awake from a sleep which seemed 
akin to death, and murmur, “ Dead, dead !” or sometimes “ Drowned, 
drowned!” and then relapse into unconsciousness. 

Aunt Sophia never left her side, and tended her with unremit- 
ting gentleness. To her, perhaps, this melancholy occupation was 
notwithout its advantages; it prevented her from dwelling on her 
own troubles, or on the perils which surrounded her. For neither 
her brother nor her niece Eleanor was it possible that she could 
have entertained a genuine affection; she had for 3’ears loyally 
shut her eyes to their real character, but circumstances had of 
late compelled her to behold them, not indeed as they really were, 
but in a very unfavorable light. She was obliged to acknowledge 
to herself that the one was harsh and hard, and the other malig- 
nant, There had been a time when Eleanor had been disposed to 
regard Charles Layton with something more than favor; and since 
he had declared his love for another she had done her best to 
thwart him, and had spoken of him with the most relentless and 
bitter rancor. Still, those she had lost were her near and almost 
only relatives; and Aunt Sophia’s was one of those conventional 
natures with whom the ties of blood count for ver}'- much, inde- 
pendently of the worth or merits of her belongings. The shock- 
ing and sudden manner of their “taking off” affected her also 
extremely, and but for her thoughts being so much monopolized 
by her unhappy charge, they would naturally have dwelt upon 
it. The catastrophe which had befallen Mr. Layton, who had al- 
w\ays been a favorite of hers, was also most deplorable, though 
she felt it more deeply upon her niece’s account than on her own. 
Henceforward all the affection of her credulous but honest nature 
must be concentrated upon Edith. As to the danger which threat- 
ened them, and to which she had been hitherto keenh'- sensitive, 
she lost sight of it in the spectacle of the poor girl’s mi.sery. More- 
over, though the outlook was still veiy serious, the gale had at 
length given signs of weariness, the wind had greatly moderated, 
and the waves had shrunk to little above their normal size. Such 
an incident as that which had deprived her of her relatives, and 
swept off the very place of shelter in which they sat as with a 
knife, could hardly be imagined as one watched those hurrying 
but diminished crests. 

Strangely enough, Aunt Sophia herself had been the cause of 
Edith’s salvation, if the saving of the poor girl’s life could indeed 
be set down as any benefit. After Layton had left Edith and her 
aunt in the round-house, Mr. Norbury and Eleanor — though, as it 
happened, unseen by him— had joined them. Then Aunt Sophia 
had been seized with sudden faintness, the result of many days’ 
alarm and fatigue, and Edith, with young Conolly’s assistance, 


TilE WllECK. 


93 


had got her down into her cabin only a few minutes before the 
tragedy on deck took place. 

Tlie recurrence of such a catastrophe was, as has been said, 
now no longer to be feared, but the coudition of affairs was still 
full of danger. The Ganges was little better than a wreck. A 
jury-mast had been set up with a few sails, and she answered 
wonderfully to her helm; but she labored heavily, while the rain 
continued in such volume that it made every one almost as wet 
and v;retched as the seas she had shipped had done before. For 
the first time since the commencement of the storm, the vessel 
resumed her proper course, from which she had been driven at 
great speed for many days. From the chart it appeared that she 
was hundreds of miles from the nearest land, and, of course, ut- 
terly unfit to cope with bad weather. Still, as the midshipman 
had said, there was now hope — for those to whom life still offered 
hopes. 

On Edith this cheering news had little influence, though she 
strove to be thankful for the sake of others. If the highest ex- 
pectations of her companions should be realized and India should 
be reaehed in safety, what would that avail her? She would only 
be landed in a strange country, to which she had always been 
averse, without a friend save the one that accompanied her, and 
to whom it would be as distasteful as to herself. The best she 
had to look forward to— if she could be said to look forward to 
anything, for, alas! were not all her miserable thoughts centred 
in the past? — was that her stay there should be as short as possi- 
ble. A tedious and melancholy return voyage then offered itself, 
full of wretched associations, and at the end of it a home only in 
name. The man she loved had left his country for her sake, and, 
under a mistake that seemed something designed by Fate in sheer 
malignity, had perished in a vain attempt to save another whom 
he had imagined to be herself. What a waste of love and hero- 
ism it seemed! What was the use of valor, and self-sacrifice, and 
devotion, if such rewards were meted out to them? It was worse 
than if blind chance had done it; it almost seemed that evil, and 
not good, was lord of all. 

Presently the rain ceased and the sun came out. The white 
malice of the cruel sea was succeeded by its “countless smile.” 
Like some treacherous tyrant who has a good-natured mood and 
is amazed that his late victims should have any remembrance of 
his late monstrous cruelties, it seemed to say, “ Come, let by-gones 
be by-gones; my late trespasses against you have left, I assure you, 
no revengeful feelings in my mind; let us laugh and play togeth- 
er.” Nor was the invitation declined. Man, so suspicious of his 
fellow-man, is credulous to the advances of Nature. In a few hours 
death and destruction — the loss of their comrades, the ruin of 
their floating home — were by the majority of the crew of the 
Ganges almast forgotten; all hands went busily to work to throw 
open the ports and to dry and air the ship, to examine the pro- 


94 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


visions and the stores, and even to clean tlie small-arms. They 
did this not only with alacrity but cheerfulness; they could not 
resist the sunny smile of the sea and the warm kisses of the fa- 
voring wind. Even Aunt Sophia was wonderfully enlivened by 
them. 

“Dearest Edith,” said she, “the air is so fresh and the sky so 
bright, surely it would do you good to come on deck.” 

“ On deck! Oh, no,” cried the poor girl, with a shudder; “let 
us remain here, I entreat you.” 

To come on deck and gaze upon the sea seemed to her like an 
invitation to behold her lover’s grave. Action, indeed, of any 
kind had become abhorrent to her. She secretly entertained a sort 
of hope that by remaining where she was, which she knew to be 
unwholesome for her, she might pine away and die without the 
sin of suicide. Her state of mind was not at all understood by 
Aunt Sophia, though she thoroughly sympathized with her ca- 
lamity — a circumstance which often happens to those in sorrow: 
it is easier to weep with those that weep than to hit upon the 
springs of consolation. It would have been wiser for the present 
to have avoided the subject of her niece’s loss; the wound was 
too fresh and tender to be touched upon ever so lightly. But 
Aunt Sophia thought differently; had their relations been re- 
versed she would have found comfort from discoursing upon it, 
and she judged Edith by herself. 

“ He is not lost, but gone before, my darling,” she would mur- 
mur gently; but her well-meant endeavors at consolation met with 
no response. To the mind agonized by bereavement such conven- 
tional remedies are positive aggravations of calamit}'’; they seem 
to wrong by their ineffectual ness and insignificance the memory 
which it holds so sacred, and to make light of the loss which it 
deplores. Once she even ventured to repeat a phrase which had 
often passed Edith’s lips as she lay half unconscious during her 
first hours of woe. “ ‘ Faithful and true, living or dead,’ my dar- 
ling, you are as much his own, and he yours, remember, as though 
he were still with you.” 

But Edith shook her head with a look of pained displeasure. 
The saying that had been wont to comfort her when there was no 
present need for its application was no consolation now. It is 
doubtful whether under similar circumstances there ever is much 
consolation in it. The widower goes to his wife’s grave and there 
weeps tears of blood; for, after all, whatever hateful change may 
have taken place in her, there she lies whom his soul loved. He 
cannot so easily picture her, under he knows not what altered con- 
ditions, in the skies, or keep his heart up with the thought of vis- 
iting her there. It is not that the promise is uncertain, but that 
it is so difficult to picture its realization. The truth is that in 
very great calamities, and unless the suffering soul is permeated 
by religious feeling, the world to come has as little interest for us 
as the present world; both alike, for a time at least, seem dull, 


THE WRECK. 


95 


stale, and unprofitable. The voice of prayer itself is stifled upon 
the lips by the chill fingers of misery. To the desolate and be- 
reaved heart it seems that there is nothing left to be prayed for; 
no, not even death itself. Such, in fact, was Edith Norbury’s 
case; and it was not to be wondered at, under such circumstances, 
that Aunt Sophia’s cheering news of fine weather and progress 
fell upon deaf ears. It would have been neither good nor bad 
tidings to Edith had she been even told that the ship was in sight 
of port. This, however, the Ganges was very far from being. 

For the first time for many days, the captain had been able to 
get “an observation,” by which he found their latitude to be 10^ 16' 
north. He also found means to try the current, which was setting to 
the E.N.E. at half a mile an hour. Their rate of sailing was neces- 
sarily very slow, and they were entirely out of the track of ships, 
only one of which, indeed (and that pronounced to be a phan- 
tom), they had set eyes on since they left Simon’s Bay. On the 
other hand, they had a good store of provisions on board, not- 
withstanding that some of it had been spoiled by the rain and 
sea; and the thoughts of the sailors, which had been directed to 
Davy’s Locker with grave doubts as to the accommodation it 
would be likely to afford them, were turning lightly towards Cal- 
cutta. 

One night, however, the wind began to freshen, and though 
even in the ship’s crippled condition Mr.Marston did not think so 
seriously of it as to arouse the captain, taking a few hours’ rest 
after his prolonged exertions, there were signs of more trouble in 
store for them. It was, however, far from being of the same kind. 
A little after midnight, and with heavy rain falling, the man on 
the lookout suddenly cried, “Breakers ahead!” and the call had 
hardly reached the officer on deck when the ship struck with ter- 
rific violence. The horror and dismay were universal, for such 
a contingency had never been anticipated. It seemed almost as 
likely that an iceberg should have loomed upon them out of the 
murk and mist. All below, save the two ladies, were on deck in 
five minutes, and were thronging about the captain in an unusual 
manner, as though appealing to an authority whom they trusted 
in a misfortune of which they had no experience, and in which 
they knew not how to act. Unhappily, there was no remedy for 
their calamity but to wait for dawn, and in the mean time to pre- 
pare for the worst, which was only too certain to happen. The 
Ganges, which had survived so much, it was now plain, was 
doomed. Every shock of the sea, from which she could no lon- 
ger escape, caused her a damage more or less vital. In less than 
an hour the water was as high as the lower-deck hatchways; and, 
moreover, she was heeling over to one side. The ammunition 
and provisions were therefore all brought up and placed under 
tarpaulins. The two remaining boats were hoisted out, supplied 
with arms, food, and water, and kept under the lee of the ship to 
receive the crew when she should go to pieces. "When all was 


96 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


done that could be done in such a strait, the ladies were sent for, 
as it was thought perilous for them to remain any longer below. 
]\Ir. Marston assisted Aunt Sophia up the companion-ladder, and 
Mr. Ainsworth took charge of Editli. Both ladies were in deep 
mourning, and their appearance excited not a little interest not- 
withstanding the emergency of the occasion. 

The scene in which they found themselves was a very strange 
one. Nearly one-half of the vessel was already submerged; but 
the quarter-deck, resting on the rocks, was almost clear of water; 
while the quarter-boards alforded some shelter from the sea and 
rain. Here the captain received them with great sympathy but 
perfect cheerfulness, while the crew stood around him in enforced 
inaction. Aunt Sophia was so prostrated by fatigue and terror 
that she was only too thankful to sit down and shut her eyes to 
such sights around her as the dim light rendered visible; among 
which the most horrible were the black rocks showing through 
the white foam of the breakers. Her attitude, with clasped hands 
and closed lips — though, as she afterwards owned, she had the 
greatest difficulty to keep herself from screaming — might well 
have been taken for one of resignation. Edith, on the other 
hand, looked around her with impassive calm. That inditference 
of despair possessed her which surpasses in its outward manifes- 
tation the highest heroism. Death was as free from terrors for 
her as life of hopes. 

The captain had feared the effect of the appearance of his lady 
passengers upon the crew, and was not slow to take advantage of 
their unexpected calmness and courage. He had intended to ad- 
dress his people on the course of conduct he expected from them, 
and this incident afforded him an admirable text. If such cou- 
rageous behavior was seen in women tenderly nurtured and unac- 
customed to peril, what might not be expected of men and sailors 
like themselves? He did not attempt to make light of the calam- 
ity that had befallen them; it was certain that the Ganges would 
never float again, and it was probable that in a few hours she 
would go to pieces. Discipline and obedience to authority were 
the virtues which alone could assist them in such a strait. When 
similar misfortunes happened, he reminded them, they had been 
often rendered irremediable by license and despair. Let them at 
least meet their fate like men, and in their sane minds, without 
resort to the spirit-room. 

This brief discourse was received with a round of hearty cheers, 
which was repeated with even greater enthusiasm when the cap- 
tain announced that two glasses of wine should be at once ad- 
ministered to every man, with a biscuit between them. In their 
wet and worn condition it was a refreshment greatly needed, and 
its effect was excellent. No one, the authorities upon suicide tell 
us, ever shuffles off his mortal coil within two hours of a meal; 
for though things are said to be “looked at through a glass dark- 
ly,” exactly the reverse happens when the medium is a wineglass. 


THE WRECK. 


97 


The poor souls on the deck of the Ganges, or on what was left of 
it, needed all the encouragement they could get as they waited 
through those weary hours, and longed, like a sick man, for the 
dawn. 

At last it came, and disclosed a small island some three miles 
away, with some larger ones much farther off to the eastward. 
The two boats were immediately manned and oared and sent on 
shore, with instructions to bring back an immediate report; while 
in tiic mean time, for they were quite insufficient for the transport 
of the crew, and the ship might at any moment go to pieces, those 
who were left on board applied themselves to the construction of 
a raft. The work, though very difficult by reason of constant in- 
terruptions to it caused by the shocks and inundations of the 
waves, was entered upon without the least confusion, and with as 
perfect discipline as though the vessel, instead of being a wreck 
upon rocks, had been lying at anchor at Spithead. The spectacle 
of this dutiful enthusiasm aroused Edith from her lethargy. That 
sympathy with our fellow - creatures in their physical struggles 
against fate, which is felt even by the dullest and most selfish, 
won her for the moment from the contemplation of her own mis- 
ery. Her bruised heart began to beat once more in unison with 
human endeavor. As the captain stooped over her as he passed 
by, to arrange a rug that had been thrown over her shoulders, she 
could not forbear an expression of admiration at the conduct of 
his crew. 

“ That is partly your doing. Miss Edith,” he answered, pleas- 
antly. “ AVhere women show themselves heroines, it is impos- 
sible for men to be cowards.” 

“I am not brave, Captain Head,” she answered, with a faint 
smile, “but I have courage enough to hear the truth. In two 
words — can you tell me what is our real position?” 

“ That will depend upon the report from the boats; but I have 
little doubt that we shall all get to land.” 

“And what land is it? I entreat you,” she added, reading re- 
luctance on his face, “ to tell me the worst.” 

“My dear young lady,” he answered, gently, “you lay on me 
an unwelcome task. I know no more of that land than you do. 
It is not marked on the chart. No human eyes, it may be, have 
ever seen it besides our own. On the other hand, it may be inhab- 
ited by some savage race; that, of course, would be a bad busi- 
ness for us.” 

“And if not?” 

“Well, if not, I fear we must make up our minds to stay there 
for some time, until we are in our turn discovered; perhaps even 
forever.” 

“ Our sentence is either death, in fact, or transportation for 
life?” 

“It is something like it, I fear; but that is no reason why wq 
should lose heart, my dear young lady.” 

7 


98 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“ Certainly not. Thanks, captain,” was her cheerful reply. 
'‘A new life in a new land,” she murmured to herself. It was a 
prospect, though without attractions, which at least appeared less 
repulsive to her than a new life in the old one. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

LAND. 

Man, it is said, is the creature of circumstances; but not always 
so. The martyr in his flames, for example, is certainly indepen- 
dent of them, so is the intending suicide; and, generally, we may 
say that they have less influence over us in proportion to our mis- 
fortunes. There are cases indeed when continuous loss and disap- 
pointment place the simplest of us in a higher position than any 
to which philosopliy can attain; when, in other words, we are so 
miserable that we care not what befalls us. It is an occurrence of 
which nobody is envious; but it has a certain dignity, nevertheless, 
such as the bastard melancholy, which it is still the fashion with 
some of us to assume — aspire to in vain. 

It was wonderful, even to herself, with what equanimity Edith 
contemplated the scene in which all those about her took so keen 
an interest. So long as the construction of the raft was in prog- 
ress, occupation prevented the intrusion of discouragement; but 
when all was done and nothing remained but to await the return 
of the boats, without which the raft was almost useless, a profound 
depression succeeded to exertion; the daylight was fast waning; 
the sea was on the whole less violent, but the structure on which 
it made its assaults was growing manifestly less able to resist them. 
At last a great cry of joy arose from all. It was only the sight 
of the boats that had parted from them a few hours before that 
evoked it ; but, when in calamity, men are thankful for small 
mercies ; or, rather, no mercies seem small to them ; when we 
listen in our mute despair by the death-bed of our dear ones, one 
word — ay, even a groan — is music. 

Aunt Sophia threw herself into Edith’s arms, and strong men, 
moved by an overpowering impulse, shook hands with one an- 
other. Then all descended into the raft — a loose and shifting 
mass at the best— to which the ladies had to be secured by ropes. 
The pinnace was to take it in tow, and the jolly-boat, until they 
had passed the reef, which lay behind them and the island, was 
to tow the pinnace. AVhen all was ready the boatswain sounded 
his whistle, and Captain Head, though loath to leave the ship, 
joined his crew. It wrung his heart to quit his vessel, and every 
one shared his sorrow in a less degree. Though in ruins, it was 
still their dwelling-place, and, in departing from it, they seemed 
to be saying good-by forever to all that made what they called 
home. To the very last the old Ganges sheltered them by break- 


LAND. 


99 


ing the shocks of the sea, hut not till they had got a few boat- 
lengths away from her did they fully appreciate the service she 
had thus afforded them. Every wave now broke over them, and 
the blinding spray hid not only the pinnace from the sight of 
those on the raft, but those on the raft from one another. As for 
the ladies, their relative positions of aunt and niece, chaperon and 
charge, had become reversed ; the elder lady, prostrated with ter- 
ror, hid her face in the younger’s lap, and climg round her waist, 
as the raft rose and fell upon the long rollers, or was dragged 
through the mist and foam that crested them, Edith, on the 
other hand, gazed steadily upon them with eyes that seemed not 
so much to defy as to invite them to do their worst, which, in- 
deed, as it seemed to her, they had already done. Mr. Ainsworth 
and young Conolly did what they could to shield both ladies 
with a tarpaulin, thanks to which they were the only tenants on 
the raft who were not wetted to the skin. 

Notwithstanding that when they had once cleared the reef they 
found themselves in smoother water, their progress was so slow 
that in order to reach the land before nightfall it became neces- 
sary to anchor the raft with a grapnel, and to transfer its occu- 
pants to the pinnace, by which, at last, in batches, they were all 
landed. 

Their provisions had thus for the present to be left behind them; 
wet, cold, hungry, on an unknown shore, life alone seemed left 
to them, and not much even of that; yet the first act of these un- 
happy people was to shake hands and congratulate one another 
upon their common safety. A cheese, some biscuits, and a little 
water formed their supper; and with the priming of a pistol they 
managed to kindle a fire, by which they dried their clothes, after 
which they lay down to sleep under such shelter as they could 
find. By the foresight of the officers, a little tent had been raised 
for the accommodation of the two ladies, into which they presently 
crept. A ship’s lantern had been hung from the roof, and by its 
light they perceived that some bedding had been provided, with 
two chairs and a small looking-glass; this last a characteristic trib- 
ute from man to woman which drew a faint smile from Edith, 

“What amuses you, dear?” murmured Aunt Sophia, with a 
rueful glance at their surroundings. “I should never have 
thought you had it in you to smile,” 

To external matters Edith was indeed wholly indifferent; they 
had almost ceased to occupy a place in her mind. As she lay 
down to rest by Aunt Sophia’s side her mind was as far asunder 
from that of her companion as pole from pole. The thoughts of 
the elder lady were fixed upon the present and the future; on the 
woful circumstances in which she found herself placed, and on the 
scanty hopes of deliverance. The absence of comforts, of society, 
and of all that had hitherto constituted existence for her, appalled 
her; the roar of the angry waves seemed to bid her despair of 
ever leaving that out-of-the-way sea-girt prison. The thoughts 


100 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


of the younger concerned themselves with the past only. For 
her the cup of life seemed to contain no longer joy or sorrow, 
and the fabric and the fashion of it were therefore indifferent to 
her. The thunder of the surf spoke to her not of the loss to come 
but of tlie loss that had already befallen her — it was the volley 
over her dead hero’s grave. 

Notwithstanding the agitation of their minds and their adverse 
surroundings, there presently fell such dreamless sleep upon them 
both as tliey had not experienced for weeks. 

Edith woke in broad daylight and to almost unbroken silence. 
In the distance alone was heard the whisper of the wave as it 
wooed the unwilling sand to its embrace. Though their tent 
had been pitched in a spot comparatively retired, the bustle and 
movement of so many persons making the best of strange quar- 
ters, and the monotonous tread of the sentries who had been 
placed about their improvised camp, had been beard on all sides 
when they retired to rest. Not a voice, not a footstep, now gave 
token of human presence. 

“ Edie, dear, are you awake?” said Aunt Sophia, in tremulous 
tones. 

‘ ‘ Y es, dear. ” 

“I have been awake for hours, but did not like to disturb you. 
It is so very still, I am sure something dreadful has happened. 
Is it possible that w’e have been deserted?” 

“Certainly not. Fate is very cruel, but the one crime she 
cannot commit is to shake the loyalty of a noble heart.” 

“True; Captain Head, as you say, is too much of a man of 
honor to leave two defenceless women to shift for themselves be- 
cause they were an encumbrance to him. Then, IMr. Ainsworth, 
too— it would be very unlike a clergyman, would it not? And I 
am sure that charming little midshipman would never leave you.'" 

“ My dear Sophy! What nonsense!” 

“Of course I know it’s nonsense; it’s the devotion of a child; 
but still he u devoted to you ; and Mr. Marston and Mr. lied- 
mayne, though they say very little — and indeed I wish I could 
hear them say anything just now — are officers and gentlemen. 
Still it is so 7)ery quiet. 1 have been thinking all sorts of things. 
Suppose they have been all murdered by the savages.” 

“ What savages?” 

“Well, of course, there are savages; who ever heard of an un- 
discovered island— I heard Mr. Doyle say it was undiscovered— 
without savages? By-the-bye, there is good ]\Ir. Doyle! Don’t 
be alarmed; I don’t mean to say I see him— I wish I could see 
anybody— 1 was merely reckoning up our friends.” 

“I say again,” said Edith, gravely, “friends do not desert us 
of their own free-will, though Fate may snatch them away. Let 
us get up and look about us.” 

Their toilet was not a prolonged one; they had no extensive 
wardrobe to choose from, having indeed only the clothes which, 


LAND. 


101 


as the plirase goes, “they stood up in,” and in whic-h they had 
lain down. To men this may seem a small matter, but to the two 
ladies, to whom such an experience was unknown, it was signifi- 
cant enough of their new position. As Aunt Sophia surveyed 
herself in the little hand-glass she burst into tears. 

“What has happened?” inquired Edith, with anxiety. 

“Nothing. 1 am thinking of what is going to happen. If we 
are to stay here. Heaven knows how long, what will become of us? 
I mean of our gowns. In a month they will be dowdy to the last 
degree. In two months they will be in rags.” 

“ Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,” said Edith, senten- 
tiously. 

“Yes, but they are not sufficient for the day. At least mine 
is not; it is falling to pieces already: and where are we to get 
needles and thread? My dear, have you such a thing about you 
as a pin ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Come, that’s something,” ejaculated Aunt Sophia. 

It is indeed a subject of satisfaction when, though in extreme 
straits, we find that we are not actually deprived of the neces- 
saries of life. For the moment the consciousness of having re- 
paired her clothes put the apprehension of savages out of this 
lady’s mind; it was a proof, too, that she did not in her heart be- 
lieve that they had been deserted by unkind man. 

On issuing from the tent a most lovely view presented itself. 
The sapphire sky was without a cloud — the sea, though of a 
deeper blue, glittered with endless smiles. Soft, silvery sand 
was beneath their feet. Above them towered a precipitous hill, 
broken with a thousand crags, overgrown by flowery creepers, 
and crested with full - foliaged trees. The air had a mixture of 
freshness and sweetness such as they had never experienced be- 
fore; to draw their breath was itself a luxury. 

“How very, very beautiful !” exclaimed Edith. “See how 
bigii the sun is in the heavens; it must be mid-day.” 

“ Then where ou earth are our people?” 

As if in answer to this appeal a human figure presented itself 
on one of the rocks above them, and took off his hat in salutation. 
It was Master Lewis Conolly, who, the next instant, sliding down 
what looked like a rope of flowers, presented himself before them. 

“You dear, good boy,” cried Aunt Sophia, ecstatically. “I 
knew you would not be hir away from us. Where is everybody 
else? And why are we thus left all alone?” 

“The captain gave orders that you ladies were not to be dis- 
turbed,” answered the youth, respectfully. “ I have been on sen- 
try yonder over you for the last three hours, though danger could 
hardly have befallen 3^011, since the island is quite uninhabited.” 

“Then they are gone!” ejaculated Aunt Sophia, distractedly. 

“AVhat, our people? Well, most of them are on board the 
wreck. Mr. Ainsworth, however, is preparing breakfast for us 


102 


A PEINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


yonder.” He pointed to a thin line of smoke above a ridge of 
rocks which separated the little cove in which their tent was 
placed from the larger bay where the boats had landed, and 
which, in the darkness and confusion of the previous night, had 
seemed one with it, 

“I hope he is not toasting the cheese,” murmured Aunt Sophia, 
from whose mind, agitated beyond its powers, all sense of pro- 
portion had vanished, and in which the apprehension of one 
trouble only disappeared to give place to some new foreboding. 
“I am very hungry, but I don’t think I could eat that cheese 
again.” 

The young midshipman only replied by a good-humored laugh, 
as he piloted the ladies to the spot in question. On their way 
Edith could not but remark with what judgment and solicitude, 
notwithstanding the disorder that had apparently reigned the 
previous evening, their own place of refuge had been selected. 
“ Ladies’ Bay,” as it was afterwards called, was, indeed, admirably 
fitted for the purpose to which the captain had assigned it. The 
reef of rocks between it and the larger bay ran high enough to 
afford it perfect privacy, while at the same time communication 
with it, by a passage close under the open cliff, was maintained in 
all conditions of the tide. 

It was curious, while gratefully acknowledging this kindly fore- 
sight of her fellow-creatures, how bitterly she resented the cruelty 
of fortune. Her own mind, like that of her companion, was, in 
truth, for the time thrown off its balance, though in a different 
fashion. The very kindness which had been shown her on all 
hands increased that rebellious feeling which rises in the human 
heart — and often highest in the most gentle — in the dark hour of 
bereavement; the sufferings to which those companions to whose 
good offices she was so much indebted were exposed, seemed 
only another proof of the harshness and injustice of Fate. The 
force of circumstances could hardly have had a stronger illustra- 
tion; for, in matters of faith and feeling, Edith Norbury had been 
hitherto in no way different from the majority of those of her 
sex and position in life who accept the decrees of Providence 
with that facile submission which is paid to a limited monarchy 
which no one suspects of an arbitrary or unjust act. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

EESCUE BAY. 

Rescue Bay, as it was presently christened by common con- 
sent, in which the ladies now found themselves, presented a very 
different appearance from that which it had offered to their eyes 
twelve hours before. Not a trace of storm was to be seen on sea 
or shore; the breeze, which blew from the land, only just sufficed 


RESCUE BAY. 


103 


to spread the Union Jack which had already been planted on the 
summit of the wooded cliff, not so much in sign of sovereignty 
as to attract, without loss of time, the attention of a passing ves- 
sel, if such perchance should, like their own, be ever driven from 
her course into those unfrequented seas. The great expanse of 
glittering sand was already marked out into spaces for the recep- 
tion of human tenants or for the accommodation of stores, a 
goodly heap of which was already piled above high-water mark. 
Knots of men, as busy as bees, were drying powder in the sun or 
sitting under the shade of the rocks with which the sand was in- 
terspersed, cleaning and polishing their small-arms. 

It was noticeable that, notwithstanding this unusual industry, 
every man now and then looked up from his occupation to gaze 
seaward, where operations were going on, on which, as they well 
knew, depended not only their hopes of future enfranchisement, 
but it might be even their means of subsistence. A hasty survey 
of the island had already been made, which, as has been said, had 
been found to be uninhabited; but it still remained to be seen 
whether it offered any sustenance for human life. Water, indeed, 
it possessed in plenty, for down the centre of the cliff there fell, 
with leaps and bounds, a silver stream of sufficient volume to 
make its course visible through the sand until it reached the 
shore, where it emptied itself into a land-locked harbor. 

The reef, in fact, on which the Ganges had come to grief 
formed a natural breakwater which, though extending to the 
shore in a westward direction, left on the east a sufficiently broad 
passage to have admitted her with safety in daylight in almost 
any weather; while, once under its protection, she could have 
anchored in company with a dozen ships of the same size, shield- 
ed even from the east wind by a projecting promontory of the 
land. The question now on which so much was depending was 
whether the ship could be got off, in which case it could possibly 
be towed into harbor and repaired. 

In the mean time, while the present fine weather lasted, every 
moment of daylight was utilized in bringing off stores, provi- 
sions, and every article which could conduce to the general com- 
fort and convenience. For this purpose, not only the boats, but 
also the raft, had been despatched to the reef and was now anch- 
ored on the sheltered side of it, and with the naked eye the 
men could be perceived making their way across the rocks that 
composed it, each with his burden on his back, like ants on an 
ant-hill. 

It was a strange and stirring spectacle, and moved the two la- 
dies much, though in a different manner. Edith gazed upon it 
with admiration, which was not without a touch of cynicism. 
Where would be the use, was the reffection that occurred to her, 
of all that industry and solicitude if the wanton wind should rise 
but for an hour, or the slumberous sea begin to yawn. To Aunt 
Sophia’s eyes it seemed that success must needs crown such ar- 


104 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


duoiis efforts. She even ventured to picture to herself once more 
in England, no longer the commonplace and conventional person- 
age whose role she had hitherto been content to play, but a female 
Ulysses, on whose lips, as she detailed her wanderings and ad- 
ventures, quite the best society would be eager to hang. 

The interest of this distant scene for the moment indeed made 
the two new-comers quite oblivious to the fact that Mr. iVinsworth 
was waiting for them, and his breakfast, in the foreground. He 
had kindled a fire on which some coffee was preparing, and spread 
out a little table-cloth on the sand, whereon potted meats, mar- 
malade, and other condiments were laid, as for a picnic, 

“Where on earth did you get all these dainties?” exclaimed 
Aunt Sophia, as she warmly shook hands with him, her spirits 
already elevated, rising several degrees higher-, at the contempla- 
tion of a feast, which the air of the place rendered as Mmlcome as 
it was unexpected. “My dear Edith, there are actually eggs!” 

“The two surviving fowls, like all the rest of us, have been do- 
ing their duty,” returned the chaplain, as pleased with the young- 
er lady’s grateful smile as by her companion’s more exuberant 
satisfaction. “It is to Mr. Marston that you are indebted for 
the sundries, and to Mr. Redmayne for the potted shrimps. Mr. 
Doyle contributed the marmalade; but that is not to be put to his 
credit, for out of two pots which he brought ashore one broke in 
his pocket. The captain himself supplied the coffee-pot and its 
contents, and your humble servant collected the sticks for the 
fire.” 

“But where, except the sticks, did it all come from, Mr. Ains- 
worth?” inquired Edith. “Is it possible that you gentlemen 
have been ransacking the Ganges for our comfort while we tw’o 
sluggards were asleep.” 

“ While you were taking that rest which nature demanded, let 
us rather say, and which your courage and conduct, permit me 
to add, have nobly earned, some of the officers and a boat’s crew 
made a trial trip to our old home, and picked up what they could. 
Tliey are now laying her under contributions on a much more 
extended scale. The necessity of it is plain enough, but it goes 
sorely against the grain with our poor captain. He says that it 
seems to him like taking the money out of the pocket of a dead 
friend.” 

“ Docs he think, then, there is no hope of the ship’s ever being 
got off?” inquired Aunt Sophia, looking up from her egg as if it 
were addled. 

“ He cannot say that for certain till he has made a more particu- 
lar survey of the wreck,” said the chaplain, evasively, at the same 
time bringing a telescope to bear upon the object in question. 
“ He is now coming off in the jolly-boat, I see, and will no doubt 
bring us news of the matter. Ho'wever it may be, dear ladies,” 
he added, gravely, “ let us remember we have very much to be 
thankful for even as it is.” 


RESCtJU BAY. 


105 


“That is just what Robinson Crusoe said, or was it the parrot?” 
observed Aunt Sophia. Nothing was further from her thoughts 
than any disrespect to the chaplain, but the etfect of the observa- 
tion was disastrous. 

“ In such a condition as our own. Miss Norbury,” returned Mr. 
Ainsworth, reprovingly, “ believe me, that the virtue it behooves 
us most to practise is that of resignation to the will of Provi- 
dence.” 

“No doubt, no doubt; but let us hope that things will not 
come to the worst,” said Aunt Sophia, naively. 

“Never say die while there’s a shot in the locker,” observed 
Master Conolly, as he disposed of a sardine neatly packed in a 
layer of marmalade between a couple of sweet biscuits. It was a 
contribution apposite enough to the conversation, but not on the 
whole calculated to allay irritation. A glance which the good 
chaplain happened to cast at Edith, hhwever, put all indignation 
out of his mind. In that calm and unmoved face he read, as he 
thought, an absolute submission to the decree of Fate, and, re- 
membering what she had undergone, his heart found no room in 
it except for pity. A silence fell upon the little group as they 
watched the boat, which was bringing the judge and their sen- 
tence with it. It seemed to them that he stepped out of it with 
a certain slowness and dignity which — though dignity was by no 
means naturally wanting with him — spoke of disaster nobly faced; 
it might, however, be the mere sense of responsibility which their 
position must in any case have entailed upon him. He came 
towards them with firm, resolute steps, and took oil his cap to 
his fair guests with a cheerful smile. 

“ I hope, Mr. Ainsworth, you have taken care that these ladies, 
who have been placed in your especial charge, have been well 
provided for?” 

“Indeed,” said Aunt Sophia, “we have fared most luxurious- 
ly, Captain Head. My niece and I, indeed, have no words to 
thank you for the consideration and kindness with which we 
have been treated by everybody.” 

“That is well, ladies. So it will be, I am confident, to the end, 
however long we may be fated to remain in our present quarters.” 

“ Then — then,” quavered Aunt Sophia, “you think there is no 
hope — ” 

“As regards the ship, I regret to say, a few days — a few hours, 
if the wind should rise — will, in my opinion, see the last of her.” 

“ Oh, Captain Head, dear Captain Head, do you really m'ean 
that wm shall never see home again?” 

“We are, dear madam, as Mr. Ainsworth here will tell you 
better than I,” said the captain, gently, “in the hands of God. 
He will do what seems best to Him and doubtle.ss best for us. I 
do not ask you to give up hope, if hope is a comfort to you, but I 
think it would be better for us all to face the facts. 1 trust we 
shall all do what in us lies, like Englishmen and Englishwomen, 


106 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


for ourselves and one another; but, in my judgment, since you 
ask me, I think we shall never see old England more.” 

At these words, which were delivered by the honest captain 
with a certain solemn simplicity that went home to the hearts of 
his hearers. Aunt Sophia covered her face with her hands and 
wept bitterly. 

Edith instantly rose, and with a glance at the rest which, gen- 
tle and apologetic though it was, forbade them to follow, led her 
agitated companion to her tent. The others stood looking at one 
another in consternation, as men who are not by nature “roughs ” 
are wont to do at the sight of a woman’s tears. 

“What a fool’s trick it was of mine,” murmured the captain, 
penitently, “ to blurt out the truth like that.” 

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with,” returned the 
chaplain, confidently. “It is much better that she should know 
the worst at once than delude herself with false hopes.” 

There was an uncomfortable pause, and then the captain, low- 
ering his voice, observed, “I was not thinking so much of the 
one that was working at the pumps, but of the other. Did you 
hear what that poor girl said when I told them that we should 
never see old England more? She said, ‘ Thank heaven!’ ” 

“Yes, I heard her. I don’t think, however, she quite knew 
what she was saying.” 

“Driven out of her wits, eh, by my blundering speech? Well, 
the next time I have any bad news for her you shall break it 
yourself. Heaven knows I had rather go without my breakfast 
any day than she should have an ache in her little finger. But 
since the mischief’s done, and the coffee’s here, you may pour me 
out a cup, Conolly.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE captain’s SPEECH. 

As when a railway-train is rapidly emptied of its luggage on a 
platform when the express is almost due behind it, so were the 
contents of the Ganges hurried over her side and into the boats. 
Not an hour of the calm weather, nor of daylight, was wasted; 
for it was well understood by all, that whatever seemed precious 
now would have a fancy value a few weeks hence, and miglit 
even make the difference of life or death. Though the captain’s 
resolution as regards the vessel was acknowledged to be a sound 
one, there was still a hope that, after all which was necessary to 
their immediate existence should be got out of her, her timbers 
might be made use of to build another ship; but for this a long 
spell of fine weather was indispensable, as the conveyance of any- 
thing of size and weight across the reef was very difficult, and 
the prognostications of the barometer were far from favorable. 
For the present, however, morning after morning dawned in sun- 


THE captain’s SPEECH. 


107 


shine and with softest airs, and every evening saw the acquisi- 
tions from the ship immensely increased. To the more thought- 
less and sanguine, it seemed that the stores thus accumulated 
would last forever; they said to themselves with Robinson Cru- 
soe, that never before were shipwrecked men so well provided; 
but to those of better judgment it was plain that unless the island 
itself could be made to yield them support, they would be in the 
position of men who live upon their principal, and that a day 
must needs come, and that at no distant date, when there would 
be nothing left to feed so many hungry mouths. 

The investigation of the capabilities of their place of exile 
was, however, for the time postponed for the work of salvage. 
The spectacle of so much industry amid a scene so fair was in 
itself exhilarating. If our first parents had had some occupation 
in their idle hours in the Garden of Eden, besides loafing and 
spooning, it is probable that they would not have made such a 
fiasco of matters. Even the ladies, who might easily have pleaded 
exemption from the common toil, put Eve to shame in this re- 
spect; for, instead of roaming over their lovely dwelling-place in 
search of fruit, they busied themselves in sorting out whatever 
articles required care and good keeping, and in storing them 
afresh in such places as the captain deemed desirable. This em- 
ployment prevented their minds from dwelling upon their re- 
spective calamities, while the invigorating though genial climate 
restored both strength and spirit. 

The solicitude with which they were treated by almost all 
hands had also its encouraging effect, and they often found them- 
selves, to their own astonishment, discoursing of things around 
them as though they had been the environments of ordinary life 
rather than of an abnormal and exceptional position. As a rule, 
Edith was the consoler; or, rather, by avoiding all reference to 
their past, beguiled her companion’s thoughts from it. Now and 
then, however, she would, as it were unawares, make some allu- 
sion to it, which revealed the sepulchre where her heart was bur- 
ied. On such occasions it was the elder lady’s part, not indeed 
to comfort her, for such a task she knew to be beyond her pow- 
er, but to turn the talk to other subjects. 

“I cannot help thinking. Aunt Sophia,” said Edith, as the two 
ladies sat in their tent one evening comforting themselves with a 
cup of tea after the labors of the day, “that this must be one of 
the Enchanted Isles that sailors believed in until within the last 
hundred years.” 

“That must be before the geographical books began to be 
published, I suppose?” 

“Not at all. I remember in that old geography of De Lisle, 
which dear papa used to set such store on, they were marked in 
a map as Basil and Asmuda. Even so late, he once told me, 
as 1750 , an island never before known, but covered with fields 
and woods, and very fertile, was seen in the Atlantic, and so 


108 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD, 


Strongly vouched for that ships were sent from England to ex- 
plore it.” 

“I hope they will be sent to look for this one,” sighed Aunt 
Sophia. 

“It is hardly likely, though the parallel holds good in other 
respects; for De Lisle’s notion was that it was the country of 
ghosts, and are we not here the ghosts of our former selves?” 

“I must confess that we have very good appetites for ghosts,” 
observed Aunt Sophia, dryly; a rejoinder, simple and common- 
place though it was, far more judicious and effective than any 
falling in with the other’s mood would have been. It had, also, 
the advantage of being true. In their new abode their physical 
health was perfect; in such a climate, indeed, there was little fear 
of its being otherwise, except through the monotony of their 
lives; and of this, as it turned out, the castaways had not long to 
complain. 

It was the fifth evening after their disaster, and everything that 
could conduce to use and comfort had been taken out of the ves- 
sel. On the next morning it was understood that the much 
more serious work of taking her to pieces was to be commenced. 
The men were in excellent spirits in anticipation of this, the first 
step towards escape from exile, tliough the carpenter had reported 
that the bands of the ship had given signs of starting, and that it 
was unlikely she could hold together much longer. The ladies 
were still at their tea, when suddenly the boatswain’s whistle 
sounded thrice. They knew it to be the signal for the assembly 
of the whole ship’s company, and started up in some alarm. 
Though not of course included in the summons, they immediate- 
ly repaired to the larger bay, and on their way were met by Mas- 
ter Conolly, who, foreseeing their apprehensions, had come in 
haste to allay them. Some trouble, he explained, had arisen with 
one or two of the men, who had helped themselves from one of 
the liquor casks, and the captain was about to address the ship’s 
company upon the matter. 

In vain the young midshipman endeavored to persuade his fair 
companions to return to their tent; their curiosity was too strong 
to bo overcome, and he could only induce them to accept his es- 
cort— a protection which, as it turned out, was not altogether su- 
perfluous. JSTot one or two only, but a good many of the men, 
exhausted with their day’s work, and urged by the natural liking 
which most seamen entertain for strong liquor, had taken advan- 
tage of the accidental breaking of a cask of rum to drink freely, 
and had become very noisy and elated. They gave, indeed, a 
mechanical obedience to the summons of the boatswain, but it 
was plain from their air and manner that they were in no condi- 
tion to listen to the voice of authority. The majority of the crew, 
however, who with them had formed a ring about the captain 
and his oflicers, maintained an attitude of respectful attention. 
Something had already happened which was not intelligible to 


THE captain’s SPEECH. 


109 


the new comers, but which could be partly guessed at by the 
attitude of the persons concerned. Close to the captain were 
three sailors, Mellor, Rudge, and Murdoch, looking very flushed, 
and, to say truth, somewhat mutinous. They had borne by no 
means a good character on board the Ganges, so that it was not 
'surprising that they should have misconducted themselves on 
shore. Yet the captain not only regarded them with such trou- 
bled and anxious looks as were inexplicable to all acquainted 
with his resolute and dauntless character, but was addressing 
them m terms of consideration rather than remonstrance. “You 
have nad a hard day’s work and little to eat, and therefore there 
is much excuse for you. But I must say to you, as indeed 1 say 
to all, that there is nothing more dangerous to persons in our 
condition than indulgence in drink.” 

“That’s all gammon,” interrupted Murdoch, huskily; he was 
a huge man, beside whose giant form, with his large arms and 
hairy chest, even tlie captain’s stalwart frame was dwarfed ; 
“since we are here we mean to enjoy ourselves, and we don’t 
mean to be preached to neither, nor yet bully-ragged as though 
we were still on board of that cursed old hulk yonder,” 

“That’s so,” and “So says I,” growled the other two men, 
while a faint murmur of applause went up from a few others in 
different parts of the assembly, which showed that they were not 
without their sympathizers. 

The majority, however, maintained a silence which was equally 
significant. They seemed only less amazed at their comrades’ 
audacity than at the patience and toleration with which it had 
been borne. 

“I am sorry,” returned the captain, m firm but quiet tones, 
which made themselves audible even to those who, like the ladies 
and their conductor, stood on the very outskirts of the crowd, 
“that 3mu should so speak of the old ship which has been our 
home so long, and I nope, upon the whole, not an unhappy one.” 

“Quite right, sir,” “A good home,” “Ay, and'with a good 
captain, too,” went up from the now excited throng in all direc- 
tions. The captain took olf his cap, and the men began to cheer, 
but became instantly silent as he recommenced, 

“1 say I am sorry that an^” man who has sailed with me should 
entertain such unpleasant recollections of his voyage, or of the 
‘cursed old hulk,’ as he calls it, which we are looking on yon- 
der, it may be, for the last time.” 

“ We don’t want no palaver; we wants to enjoy ourselves, -Ave 
wants rum,” cried the mutineers, with drunken vehemence. 

“Let the captain speak.” “ Never mind black Murdoch, sir.” 
“Three cheers for the old Ganges!” replied the crowd. 

“Rum is very good in its way, but we may have too much of 
it,” observed the captain, with all the gentleness of a moralist, 
“and especially when, as in our case, men are cast ashore upon 
an unknown laud, subject, it may be, to the attack of savages, at 


110 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


whose mercy our lives may be placed at any moment, and de- 
pendent for our slender chance of escape upon the efficiency and 
alertness of those on the watch for a passing sail. It would be 
hard to be deprived of all hope of seeing our own country again, 
with our wives and sweethearts, because some drunken scoundrel 
or another couldn’t keep from the rum,” 

“That’s so!” “Three cheers for our wives and little ones!” 
“Home, sweet Home!” “You know what’s best for us, cap- 
tain!” 

“I think I do; but as has been proved to me pretty clearly by 
the conduct of one or two of you here, whom I will not name, I 
am no longer your captain.” 

“We know that fast enough, master,” exclaimed Murdoch, 
triumphantly; “you are no master now, nor ever will be, yah!” 

“ Well, that is a matter entirely for our own consideration, my 
men,” continued the captain; “ the most votes must carry it. It 
is quite true, since the Ganges is not a King’s ship, that with the 
loss of her I have lost command of you. You no longer owe me 
an}'- obedience ; but that some one to hold supreme authority 
must be chosen by you is certain, if we would live here for a 
day without flying at one another’s throats. Fix upon whom you 
will, so long as he be honest and sober; but when he is once 
chosen, let his will be law. Even what has occurred to-night 
shows, I think, the necessity for such an arrangement, while to- 
morrow — well, for all we know, to-morrow it may be too late to 
make it. Suppose an enemy attack us, with no one to give an 
order how to repulse him. Suppose a ship came in sight, and 
fifty men crowd into a boat where there is space for only ten, 
and we lose her!” 

“Right, right; we’ll choose you, captain; there’s nobody but 
you to choose,” came from all parts of the crowd. 

“Oh yes, there are lots of others to choose from, ’ continued 
the captain, smiling, “ and whom you do choose must be elected 
in a proper manner. It won’t do to shout for Jones to-day and 
for Smith to-morrow; and your decision, whatever it be, must be 
put down in writing. You will find a paper in yonder tent, with 
pen and ink all ready for you, and the chaplain to explain mat- 
ters, and show where the mark must be put for those who are no 
scholars. Every one in the ship’s company, officers and men, 
will find his name there, and every one will vote for whom he 
likes; only remember this, that once recorded, it cannot be can- 
celled. How go and choose your king.” 


THE PLEBISCIT. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE PLEBISCIT. 

The notion of a plebiscit is always an attractive one to all 
communities. 

It was true that on the present occasion the matter was gener- 
ally understood to have a foregone conclusion. The majority of 
the men were too much attached to their old captain, and had too 
great confidence in him, to think of electing any one else to rule 
over them; but still they were flattered by the idea of choosing 
for themselves. They crowded into the tent with alacrity, where 
Mr. Ainsworth was seated at the table with “the agreement,” as 
it was simply called, but on which, in truth, very much depended. 
It set forth the peculiarity of their position, and the necessity it 
involved of having some law -giver and leader, against whose 
fiat there should be no appeal; while it left to every man the 
power of giving his vote to any member of the ship’s company 
he pleased. 

The proceedings were not without a certain solemnity, for those 
who took part in it were filled at least as much with the sense of 
their own importance as of that of the matter in hand; nor was 
the ceremony by any means a brief one. I\Iany of the sailors 
could not write, and most of them had to be separately instructed 
in the novel duty demanded of them; while even the most accom- 
plished took some time, with much leaning of their heads upon 
one side and screwing of their courage (and their mouths) to the 
sticking-place to execute their autographs. At last, however, all 
was done, though not before the fall of night had necessitated 
the use of torches in the tent, which cast their lurid glare upon a 
scene which was, in truth, eminently picturesque and striking. In 
the open air, on the other hand, there was still light sufficient for 
the conclusion of the proceedings. 

The chaplain presently emerged from the tent bearing the doc- 
ument with its long file of signatures, and, followed by the whole 
of the ship’s company, moved towards the spot where the captain 
with his officers, or, rather, with those who had hitherto occupied 
that position on board the Ganges, awaited his approach. After 
a few words of preface, Mr. Ainsworth stated that only one other 
person besides their late commander liad been nominated for the 
post of president, or leader; and as the names of those who had 
voted for the individual in question were but few, he suggested 
that it would be more convenient to read them out in the first 
place. 

At this there was some applause, and not a little laughter of the 


112 


A I^RINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


sarcastic sort, which was instantly stilled at the sound of the cap- 
tain’s voice. 

“ If, as I understand, my men,” he said, “ the great majority of 
you have decided to replace in my hands the authority which I 
before possessed, it seems to me that it would be invidious, and, 
indeed, unfair, to those who have come to a contrary conclusion, 
that their names should be made public. I neither wish to know 
who they are, nor to know who it is that in their judgment has 
appeared to tliem preferable to myself. I shall take it for grant- 
ed that both he and they will acquiesce in the decision of their 
shipmates, as I should myself have done had the case been re- 
versed; and I hope no feeling of bitterness or disappointment will 
remain in the breasts of any one of you.” 

The simplicity and straightforwardness of this address went 
home to the hearts of its hearers; chiefly, perhaps, because the 
majority of them were themselves simple and straightforward, 
Tlie reflection would have occurred to a more sophisticated com- 
munity that a reference to the agreement itself would at any time 
put the captain in possession of the information of which he had 
so chivalrously declined to avail himself; but this idea presented 
itself to neither him nor them. A round of cheers arose from the 
crowd as the captain took off his cap. It was a thing he rarely 
did, except at prayers, and was significant of his being about to 
make an important communication. “The first act of my new 
command,” he said, “is to reinstate my friends and yours” (here 
he pointed to the officers who stood around him, and who, by 
their abstinence from voting, had tacitly shown their acquiescence 
in the government of their chief) “in the same positions of au- 
thority which they have hitherto respectively occupied. Your 
vote of this evening evidently approves their reappointment, and 
you will obey them, I feel sure, as cheerfully as you will obey 
me,” 

Another hearty round of cheering here greeted the speaker; his 
allusion to their evident wishes (though it was probable they were 
unconscious of having entertained them) gratified them hugely; 
and, moreover, with one exception, they were well satisfied with 
their officers. 

As the captain looked round on the circle of approving faces, 
he perceived that enthusiasm for the new order of things had 
reached its acme, and tliat the moment had arrived for the crucial 
test of the obedience of his voluntary subjects. “ The first order 
I have to give you men will, I know, be an unpopular one,” he 
said, in a low but decisive tone; “ but when I tell you that in my 
opinion it is absolutely necessary, not only for the maintenance 
of that authorit}'- you have just ratified, but for the safety of our 
lives, you will understand that it must be executed at once, and 
without a murmur. In the beautiful climate in which Providence 
has pleased to place us, it may be for the remainder of our days, 
strong drinks of any kind will be. necessary to us only as a medi- 


THE PLEBISCIT. 


113 


cine. One of those liquor casks j^onder will therefore be placed 
in the custody of Mr. Doyle. The rest you will break up at once, 
and in my presence.” 

An ominous silence ensued upon this mandate, followed by a 
murmur of unmistakable dissent. 

“ Do you hear me?” continued the captain, in a voice at least 
as ominous; it was like the growl of a lion aroused from sleep. 
“ I must have those spirit casks broken up.” 

At first not a man stirred from his place; then out from the 
throng marched Matthew* Murdoch. The effects of liquor were 
still very discernible in him, though he knew, as the saying is, 
“ what he was about;” there was less of audacity in his manner 
than there had been an hour ago, and he exchanged a word or 
twm with those about him — an appeal, no doubt, for their moral 
support, which was presumably accorded to him — before he once 
more confronted the captain; his air, though impudent enough, 
was not so defiant as heretofore; and there Avas something of 
remonstrance, mingled with rebellion, in his husky tones. 

“Look here, captain; right is right, but reason is reason — ” 

“Stop!” roared the captain, in a terrible voice, and looking 
round him with eyes from which all shrank on whom they fell. 
“Is this drunken dog, my men, your spokesman?” he inquired, 
incredulously. 

Not a sound was heard save the breeze in the trees and the lap- 
ping of the sea upon the sand; then, after a pause, two replies 
broke forth, “Yes, he be.” 

“ Come out and join him, then, you skulking curs.” 

Then Mellor and Hudge came out in a shamefaced manner, and 
ranged themselves beside their ally. 

“Are there any more?” 

The wind and the sea alone made answer. The moment, it 
w’^as felt by all, was a supreme one, though few pictured to them- 
selves its immense importance; the ladies, whom it concerned 
most of all, the least. 

Aunt Sophia, indeed, w^as dumb with fear; she felt that matters 
w*ere in a state of tension, which could be relieved only by some 
act of despotic authority upon the one hand, or of lawle.s8 vio- 
lence upon the other, but her alarm arose from that mere shrink- 
ing from the appeal to physical force which belongs to woman’s 
nature; she thought neither of consequences nor of the oppo.sing 
forces— the ignoble and the heroic — which composed the spec- 
tacle before lier, and whose collision, like that of two thunder- 
clouds, was about to evoke an explosion. 

For Edith, on the other hand, the scene had a dramatic interest, 
so poAverful and absorbing that it left no room for apprehension. 
She had not believed that any incident of the life that Avas left to 
her could have so moved her. The reason of this, though she 
Avas unaware of the fact, Avas its absolute novelty. Her capacity 
for emotion had not, as she imagined, been destroyed; her sym- 

- 8 


114 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


patliies were as quick and tender as ever, but they could no lon- 
ger be approached by the old road. No by-play of the drama 
escaped her. She noted the attitude of the captain, a statue of 
wrought iron; his fii-m-set lips that repressed the pent-up fire 
within, and the eyes that betrayed it. She marked the ungainly 
but significant pose of the mutineer; his giant arm advanced to 
accentuate his words, his huge hand trembling with hate and fear 
and liquor, and with every now and then a glance over his shoul- 
der, as if to make sure of the presence of his supporters. 

Warned by the continued silence that speech was expected of 
him, he resumed his remonstrance. “ Keason is reason, says I; 
and it stands to reason that being our own masters, with plenty 
of leisure and victuals, that we should no longer labor, but enjoy 
ourselves. What we men wants—” 

“ You mean yowmen, you three,” interrupted the captain. 

“Nay, it’s what we all wants, only all have not the pluck of 
Matthew Murdoch to say it; we wants, since we are ashore, to 
taste the sweets of plenty. Now, there is nothing so sweet in 
life — save a lass— as good liquor; and as to destroying all them 
casks, I tell you straight out it sha’n’t be done.” 

As he ended, he touched, perhaps by accident, or to emphasize 
his argument, with his projected finger his commander’s arm, 
which instantly, as if some powerful spring had released it, struck 
out from the shoulder like a catapult, and levelled him on the 
sand. There he lay, like an ox in the shambles, and almost as 
huge, bleeding from the slaughterer’s axe, for the other’s fist had 
caught him in the jaw, and had knocked out a tooth or two. 

“When that mutinous dog comes to himself,” thundered the 
captain, with a look of contempt at the prostrate hulk before him, 

‘ ‘ put him in irons. And now, my men, break up those spirit casks, 
and be quick about it.” 

Both orders were obeyed without a murmur; the irons used in 
punishment had, as it happened, been brought from the Ganges, 
with the other resources of civilization, and were presently fitted 
to Murdoch’s huge form by the carpenter, avIio was also sergeant- 
at-arms; while the men, in gangs, each under an officer, proceed- 
ed at once to break in the heads of the spirit casks, and empty 
their contents upon the sand. 

It was not one of those “ moral victories” of which so much is 
often made by the party who, according to the poor evidenee of 
the senses, has unquestionably been beaten, but a substantial tri- 
umph of authority. Not until all was over was it fully understood 
by those most interested in the struggle (and even then only by a 
vague sense of relief) how doubtful had been the issue; if Mur- 
doch had not laid his finger on the captain, the opportunity might 
have been wanting which had brought the “skirts of happy 
chance” within his grasp, but as it happened that one knock- 
down blow had re-established his supremacy. 

Aunt Sophia had been a little shocked by it; the appeal to bruto 




THE PLEBISCIT. 


115 


force— notwithstandiug the acknowledged admiration of the fair 
sex for the display of physical strength— had jarred upon her 
gentle nature. 

“Do you not think, Edith,” she said, as they returned to their 
tent under the young midshipman’s escort, “that it would be a 
gracious and proper thing in us to ask the captain to pardon that 
poor man?” 

“I am not sure,” was the quiet reply. “I bear, of course, no 
more ill-will against him than you do, but I should like to think 
about it a little before joining in such a request.” 

“I wonder who it was that was put forward as the opposition 
candidate to the captain,” observed Aunt Sophia, presently. 

“ He particularly said that he did not want to know,” remarked 
Edith, with a half smile. 

“Quite right, and very proper in him, my dear,” replied the 
elder lady; “but, then, I do want to know. Mr. Conolly, I see 
you know; come, tell us all about it.” 

The unfortunate youth looked not a little embarrassed; if he 
could have got away from Aunt Sopliia he would probably have 
done so, and parleyed with her from a distance, but her ample 
arm was hooked to his. He cast a glance of distress at Edith 
that seemed to say, “Pray observe that it is not my fault; I am 
obliged to tell her,” ere he replied to her question, 

“ I believe. Miss Norbury, that the other candidate for the men’s 
suffrages was Mr. Bates. He had only a very small following; 
but that fellow Murdoch and the two others. Budge and Mellor, 
were among them. It was, in my opinion, the worst choice they 
could have made,” added the young fellow, still glancing furtive- 
ly at Edith’s face, which had suddenly grown very grave and pale. 

“Mr. Bates is not a favorite of mine, I’m sure,” observed Aunt 
Sophia, “ but we must remember, Mr. Conolly, it was not his fault 
that he was put in nomination. As our good captain says, let 
by-gones be by-gones; and don’t you agree with me that it would 
be, so to speak, a pretty thing in dear Edith and myself, as well 
as acceptable to his friends, to get this poor man off his punish- 
ment.” 

Master Conolly twiddled his cap, and hesitated, with his eyes 
fixed interrogatively on the younger lady. 

“ Of course, Murdoch will be giad to avail himself of your kind 
intercession,” he said; “but knowing the ill-conditioned set of 
fellows to which he belongs, I doubt whether they will like you 
a bit the better for it.” 

“Moreover,” put in Edith, with sharp decision, “I was once 
told by one very dear to me, and who was kindness itself, that it 
was always a mistake to attempt to conciliate the base and cruel, 
since it only makes them think you are afraid of them; and as I 
am not afraid either of Mr. Bates or his following, any interfer- 
ence of mine on their behalf would produce a false impression.” 

It wgs the first time that of her own free-will Edith had referred 


116 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


to her lost lover, even indirectly, since his death; and it was des- 
tined to be the last. Coiiolly, of course, understood the reason 
of her bitterness against Mr. Bates, but not so Aunt Sophia, who 
had never been madi^ the confidante of his conduct at Simon’s Bay. 
She only understood that her proposal for interfering with the 
course of justice on behalf of Matthew Murdoch had, like him- 
self, been knocked on the head. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE EXPLORATION. 

To any one who doubted of the necessity of there being a su- 
preme head to the little band of exiles, a proof was evident on 
the very next morning, which showed the reef without the wreck; 
every vestige of tlie unfortunate Ganges had disappeared, and 
but for the captain’s urgency in getting her emptied while wind 
and wave permitted, many an article of comfort for which the 
term “worth its weight in gold” would indeed have been an in- 
adequate expression, would have been lost with her. Violent as 
must have been the storm that thus took away all trace of her, 
little of it was felt within the land-locked harbor; while in 
“Ladies’ Bay,” as the spot in which its tenants were located was 
called, was heard only that muffled roar which dwellers in Lon- 
don associate with distant trafflc, and which, like a lullaby, soothes 
their slumbers. As Aunt Sophia and Edith looked to seaward 
and saw no vestige of the object to which they had always been 
wont to first turn their eyes, they could hardly believe the evi- 
dence of their senses. Its disappearance had a very different 
and even opposite effect upon them, a fact of which both were 
conscious ; the one was full of regrets, the other well content 
with what had happened; yet each for love’s sake sympathized 
with the other, and embraced her without a word. 

The morning, though somewhat fresher than its forerunners 
had been, was fine and bright, and the island had never looked so 
beautiful. Mr. Marston called upon the ladies early to inform 
them it was the captain’s orders that a more commodious resi- 
dence was that day to take the place of their tent, and to propose 
that while it was being run up, they should spend the day in ex- 
ploring their place of exile. The supe^'intendence of himself and 
his chief would be required in getting things ship-shape and in 
order in the larger bay, but the services of the second mate, Mr. 
Redmayne, and also those of Mr. Conoll}’-, would be placed at 
their disposal. A couple of men would also be told off to carry 
their provisions, as well as to aid them in other respects; the hills 
into which the island was broken being very steep, and progress, 
S by reason of the luxuriance of vegetation, by no means easy. 

This proposal was accepted with alacrity. The ladies were 


THE EXPLORATION. 


117 


very willing to emerge from the narrow limits of their present 
place of residence, and eager to explore the place that was in all 
probability to be their future home. A hasty survey of it, to 
make sure that it contained no other inhabitants but themselves, 
had been made on the first morning by some members of the 
crew ; but with that exception it was virgin ground. It was quite 
possible that the expedition they were about to make would be - 
the first that had been undertaken in the island, a flowery wilder- 
ness whose beauties had perhaps never before gladdened the eye 
of man. 

To Edith the prospect afforded even a greater satisfaction than 
to Aunt Sophia, who remarked with some surprise the pleasure 
that shone in her niece’s face in welcoming their escort; she set 
it down to the enjoyment which she promised herself in the so- 
ciety of Mr. Redrnayne, a very handsome and agreeable fellow. 
It was early days, of course, for Edith to be thinking seriously of 
any other man as a successor to her dead lover, but human nature 
was human nature, and it was only reasonable that she should ap- 
preciate the respectful and delicate attention paid her by the young 
offlcer; after all, it was only a question of time and opportunity 
when the widowed heart of the young girl would seek consolation 
elsewhere, and in no circumstances could opportunity be more 
favorable than in the present. So reasoned Aunt Sophia, not 
without a sigh, however, for the mutability of female affection, 
and a secret and complacent conviction that had the case been 
hers she would have proved more faithful, or, at all events, less 
precipitate in transferring her allegiance. As a matter of fact, 
except so far as courtesy demanded, Edith gave no thought to 
either Mr. Redrnayne or his attentions. Her pleasure, such as it 
was, arose from a precisely opposite cause, namely, from the utter 
novelty of the situation, which prevented her thoughts from dwell- 
ing at all upon the love which for her meant loss, and had no sort 
of association with it. 

Except youth and good looks, Mr. Redrnayne and Charles Lay- 
ton had little in common; but what similarity existed between 
them, so far from attracting her towards the young officer, had the 
reverse effect. If any comparison ever suggested itself to her 
mind, he suffered by the contrast. She freely acknowledged his 
good points, and was grateful to him for his politeness and good 
will; but to have set him side by side with her Charley would 
have been cruel to the one and little short of blasphemous as re- 
garded the other. Her position was that of an epicure who is 
offered home - made curagoa, and who, while admitting it to be 
good of its kind, declines to admit the least comparison with the 
original. 

The case of young Conolly, whom not even Aunt Sophia could 
credit with ii^y serious intentions, was altogether different. His^ 
society was always welcome to Edith, not on account of his ob- 
vious devotion to her, with which, indeed, if she had understood 


118 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


its depth, she would perhaps even have been displeased, but be- 
cause he had been a favorite with Charley. She never spoke of 
her lover to the young midshipman, but her eyes often filled with 
tenderness as she looked at the boy, who, witli the egotism of his 
age, imagined, no doubt, that she was not wholly indifferent to 
him upon his own account. The rules of seniority had not al- 
ways given him satisfaction, but on the present occasion he was 
well pleased that they gave Aunt Sophia to the custody of the 
second mate and left Edith to his particular care. In neither 
case was the charge a sinecure. 

The island was of small extent — not more than twelve miles in 
circumference — but of most unequal formation; except the sandy 
bays that fringed it, there was hardly a level spot to be found 
upon it; it consisted of mountains and valleys, or rather of hills 
and dells, covered with the richest vegetation and bright with 
the foliage of perpetual spring. The air which, though warm, 
was fresh and invigorating, was laden with the perfume of ten 
thousand flowers; the trees that clothed the hills themselves bore 
blossoms of the most brilliant hue; while the climbing plants 
which encircled their trunks, or which, rooted in the shelving 
rocks, hung in rich festoons from the edge of every precipice, 
gave the idea of an eternal festival of nature. 

In the miniature defiles formed by the hills, this splendor of 
bud and bloom reached its acme ; the turf, watered by clear 
streams, was enamelled by flowers of such bright and varied hue 
that as you approached it it seemed as though you were about 
to tread on a carpet formed of precious stones. The blaze of 
color would have been oppressive but for the shadowy roof of 
the huge trees which projected themselves on either side, and for 
the refreshing glimpses of the sea that were offered through their 
interlacing boughs. 

Tlirough this wilderness of beauty there was, of course, no 
pathway; but the very difficulty of progress enhanced its pleas- 
ure. When a wild rose entangles our feet, it may seem as incon- 
venient as a common bramble, but the roses of this Eden had no 
thorns. The creepers that hung from rock and tree were, how- 
ever, so numerous that it was impossible to escape their bonds; 
the wayfarers were caught, as it were, in chaplets. On the other 
hand, these assisted them in their ascents and descents ; they 
swung themselves up and down by ropes of flowers. Nothing 
that the imagination can conceive could be more wondrous than 
the spectacle of all this lavish beauty. It kept even the midship- 
man silent. 

Upon the summit of the second hill, where the Union Jack was 
flying, because it was the highest point of the island, the whole 
party halted, as if by common consent. The view from this spot 
was panoramic, and less obstructed than elsewhere by trees 
Upon all sides save one glittered the silver sea, without a break. ‘ 
in its far-stretching splendor; on the north there were two groups 


THE EXPLORATION. 


119 


of islands apparently about equidistant from them and from each 
other. 

Is it possible,” murmured Aunt Sophia, carried out of her 
ordinary plane of thought by the entrancing scene, “ that our 
eyes are the first to behold all this?” 

“ ‘ Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air,’ ” 

remarked Mr. Redmayne, with the complacency of one who 
makes an apt quotation. Nevertheless, it fell flat. Edith remem- 
bered Johnson’s depreciatory remarks upon the “ Elegy,” and for 
the first time agreed with him. The situation was indeed too 
poetic for so didactic an illustration. 

“It does not give me the notion of waste so much as of inex- 
haustible superabundance,” she remarked. 

“Just so,” returned the other, with eager agreement, “and a 
very pleasant notion, too. ‘Surplusage is no error.’” To this 
second quotation there was no reply. 

Aunt Sophia felt for Mr. Kedmayne; it was clear to her that if 
left to carry on the conversation with Edith single - handed, it 
would not conduce to his interest as regarded the etfacement of 
her former lover. She struck in, therefore, to the rescue. ‘ ‘ I am 
not quite sure, Edie, whether the presence of these islands adds 
a charm to the prospect, or the reverse. What do you think?” 

“ I think that they would be better away,” was the decisive re- 
ply. She did not.give her reason. The fact was that they gave 
a vague impression of continuity, of some connection with that 
world without, which she wished to have seen the last of, and to 
have done with. 

“A very just expression,” observed the second mate; “they 
would be much better away.” 

“Why so?” inquired Aunt Sophia; she knew that there'was 
danger to her plans in drawing him out, but her curiosity was 
too strong for her. 

“ Because though we know there are no savages on tlm island, 
w^e cannot be so sure of that as regards its neighbors.” 

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Aunt Sophia, “I understood the 
captain to say they were uninhabited.” 

“He hopes and believes they are so; but time alone can show 
it. It is sometimes a question with persons in our position, 
whether even foes are not better than no fellow-creatures at all, 
but that is not our case — at all events for the present.” 

“You mean that even foes may save us from starvation,” ob- 
served Edith, “in case the island does not prove to be self-sup- 
porting?” Mr. Kedmayne nodded. The subject was evidently 
a serious one with him, and, indeed, it had much occupied the 
thoughts of the captain and his officers. 

“Beg pardon, miss,” said one of the sailors, breaking a rather 
uncomfortable silence, ‘ ‘ but we found these pears and apples as 


120 


A riilNCE OP THE BLOOD. 


we come along, very, what you was pleased to call, self-support* 
ing.” 

“ Pears and apples! You don’t mean to tell me that you have 
been eating those great brown and red fruits,” exclaimed the offi- 
cer, angrily, “ that hung on the trees?” 

“ Well, yes, sir; my mate and me we finished up a goodish lot 
of them on the road,” said the man. 

“Good heavens! this may be very serious,” muttered Mr. Red- 
mayne, in a tone of great concern. 

“We thought they -was public property, like,” explained the 
sailor, apologetically. 

“ It is not that, my man,” observed the officer, smiling in spite 
of himself; “but you don’t know what mischief you may not 
have done to yourselves. One of the first tasks j\Ir. Doyle has 
set himself to do,” he added, turning to the.ladies, “ is to analyze 
the island fruits with a view to ascertaining their fitness for hu- 
man food.” 

“ They are not immediately fatal to life, sir,” remarked Conolly, 
dryly, but with an air of great respect. “The fact is, we ate half 
a dozen of them apiece at mess last night.” 

“The deuce you did; that only shows, however, that they do 
not kill midshipmen.” 

Despite that injurious remark, this news of the experiment hav- 
ing been tried, on however vile a body, gave the speaker great 
satisfaction. 

“If this be so, ladies,” he added, cheerfully, “then one of our 
gravest causes for anxiety is removed; with fruit and fish — for I 
take it for granted we shall find some means of catching fish — 
we need have at least no fear of want.” 

“Then, sooner or later, some one is sure to find us,” put in 
Aunt Sophia; “ that is, of course ” (with a glance at those specks 
in the distance), “I mean some European ship.” 

“Let us hope so,” said Mr. Redmayne, gently, “ though if the 
worst came to the worst, and we were left to one another’s society 
forever” — (here he blushed and stammered) — “ I mean if we were 
exiles for life in this beautiful spot, it would not be so intoler- 
able.” He cast a glance at Edith as he ended this little speech, 
but she took no notice of it, and turned to the young midshipman. 

“ What do you say, Mr. Conolly?” 

“I could be very happy here,” he answered, simply, “but I 
should like to see my mother again.” 

“ A very proper reply,” said Edith, with a smile followed by a 
little sigh. “ Come, let us go on.” 

A spirit of thoughtfulness, if not of gloom, had fallen upon 
the little party, and with a view to recover their sjjirils, Mr. Red- 
mayne proposed lunch; the meal was spread in the next valley, 
where the sailors lit a fire, and prepared some tea for the ladies; 
after which refreshment Master Conolly was called upon for a 
song. Our young midshipman had a beautiful voice, and sang 


THE EXPLORATION. 


121 


at once “ Sweet Home” witli great simplicity and sweetness. A 
silence followed it, more significant than any applause could 
have been. The rough sailors were as much touched as their 
superiors, and the hearts of all the audience, save one, seemed to 
respond with an Amen. 

As they turned to leave the spot, the midshipman’s quick eye 
lit upon a white object among the flowers, to which he called Mr. 
Redmayne’s attention. He took it up, and examined the ground 
about it with great minuteness. 

“ What new wonder have you discovered?” inquired Aunt 
Sophia. 

“No wonder, madam, but only a piece of information,” was 
the grave reply. “ We may now take it for granted that yonder 
islands are inhabited.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Because some weeks — or, perhaps, only some days ago — there 
has been held, close to where we are now sitting, another feast. 
Here are the traces of the Are, and here is a fish-bone; we must 
return at once, if you please, and inform the captain.” 

The news the excursionists brought back with them to Res- 
cue Bay was so important that, not satisfied with their report. 
Captain Head himself repaired with Mr. Redmayne to the spot 
where the discovery had been made. That a fire had been lit 
there was certain, but how long ago it was difficult to guess. In 
a less genial climate the period might have been extended to 
months, but so quick was Nature to reassert herself in that marvel- 
lous region, that it might only have included as many days. Had 
the luncheon-party been held a little later, indeed, there would 
have been no evidence “ of previous occupation ” at all, except 
the fish-bone, which might itself have got there by other than 
human means. An osprey, for instance, might have dropped its 
prey. As things were, however, it was certain that there had 
been other visitors, and that but lately, on the island than those 
who at present occupied it. 

“ I am glad it is a /.s7i-bone,” said the captain, who was not 
without some humor. “ It might have been another sort of bone, 
and proved our neighbors yonder to be cannibals. Even if they 
be cannibals, however, they will find us a tough lot,” he added, 
grimly. 

“ Not all of us,” observed the younger officer, significantly. 

“Just so; there are two tender morsels you would say, one of 
whom might tempt even a wliite man. Well, well,” he added, 
kindly, perceiving the young man’s look of confusion. “It’s 
natural enough at your age that such matters should enter your 
thoughts, though if you will take my advice, you will dismiss 
them. I know the young lady in question, and she is not like 
other girls, who, having missed their bird with one barrel, is ready 
to bring down another with a second. In any case, however, 
this is no time for love-making; our island is like heaven in more 


122 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


respects than one; there will be no marrying or giving in mar- 
riage in it for some time to come. In my judgment, we shall find 
it a very tight place.” 

“ You mean we shall not be long left in undisturbed possession 
of it, sir?” 

The captain nodded gravely. “If the Ganges had come ashore 
on the south yonder, it is my opinion w^e should have seen some- 
thing of our neighbors before now. As it is, they know less of 
us than even we know of them; but we may make each other’s 
acquaintance any day.” 

“ At all events, sir, no matter how many there may be, we shall 
be able to give a good account of them.” 

“No doubt, if matters should unhappily come to that pass; 
but all our etforts must be directed to keeping friends with them. 
If not for our own sake, for the sake of those whom we have in 
charge, and who are solely dependent upon us, it behooves us, if 
it be possible, to keep the peace. I look to you, Mr. liedmayne, 
to impress that necessity on all hands.” 

“ It shall be done, sir.” 

The captain nodded approvingly; he felt not a little pleased 
with himself as a diplomate. One of the most difficult things in 
the case of a ship’s crew finding themselves in native company is 
to keep the men from giving any cause of olfence; and he felt 
that in what he had said to the second mate, he had offered the 
strongest inducement for doing his best to maintain amicable 
relations with their expected visitors. 


CHAPTER XXL 

VISITORS. 

If Mr. Redmayne alone nourished a secret passion for Edith, 
there was no lack of good-will and even tenderness for both her 
and Aunt Sophia among the rest of the castaways. There were, 
on the whole, good specimens of Englishmen, and, with a few bru- 
tal exceptions, they understood the silent appeal made to all that 
was best in them by the presence of the two defenceless women. 
It is possible, had the reins of authority fallen into other hands, 
that the responsibility of what chance had thus imposed would 
not have been so loyally acknowledged; but as it was, it was 
pleasant to note not only the delicate attentions of the officers, 
but the willing services of the sailors, offered on all occasions to 
the two ladies as though by hosts to guests. 

The very first thought of the captain, as we have seen, had 
been to improve their place of residence; and in a very few hours 
the carpenter and his assistants had made a dwelling-house of 
wood, in place of the tent, but little inferior in solidity to those 
cramped and crazy edifices which the enterprising builder now 


VISITORS. 


123 


“ runs up ” in the suburbs of our metropolis. Its slightness was 
of no consequence, for not only was the site completely sheltered, 
but hardly any protection was needed against climatic influences. 
It required a fireplace only for cooking purposes, and there were 
no stairs. Construction was thus comparatively easy, but a great 
deal of solicitude was expended upon its external appearance. 
Not only about the ample porch with which it was provided, but 
over the whole tenement, creepers were carefully trained, which 
sprang up and flourished with such marvellous rapidity that in 
a very short time the hut of planks resembled a fairy bower. 
AVithin, the arrangements were really of ^ superior kind, every- 
thing that had adorned the best cabins, including, of course, their 
own, on board the Ganges, having been laid under contribution 
for their new abode. The sitting-room was quite handsomely 
furnished with mirrors, pictures, and couches, nor was anything 
wanting to their comfort elsewhere that forethought could sup- 
ply. Aunt Sophia and Edith were far from belonging to that 
portion of their sex which take all kindness shown tliem by the 
other as a matter of course, or to be overpaid by a frigid smile. 
Their gentle hearts were touched by it. 

On Edith, if such a word can be used of one so naturally sym- 
pathetic. it had a very humanizing effect; it made her feel that 
the terrible misfortune that had happened to her need not, as 
she had imagined, cut her off from her kind; the lamp of her 
inner life had gone out, but still she was not left in darkness; or, 
rather, her mental vision having got accustomed to what had 
seemed darkness, she became aware of a light, if of a somewhat 
dim and twilight kind, which struggled in to her from without. 
Love of the personal sort was dead within her and buried with 
her lost one in the deep; but sympathy with her fellow-creatures 
survived, and made life once more seem worth the living. 

As for Aunt Sophia, whose honesty and good-sense made her 
well aware that she had long lost those attractions which are 
generally associated with her sex, she had no words to express 
her sense of the consideration and kindness with which she was 
treated. “In your case, my dear Edith,” she said, “ it is no won- 
der, with your youth and beauty, that you should have such re- 
spect paid to you; you appear, no doubt, to this industrious hive 
like a queen-bee, to whom it is impossible to show too much de- 
votion; but for my part, I have nothing to recommend me but 
my helplessness.” 

“It is that and that only, we may be sure,” put in Edith, 
quickly, “that makes these brave fellows indulge and spoil us 
both, as 5"ou and I would indulge and spoil a motherless child; 
and I wish from my heart that we had some means of showing 
how deeply we feel their tenderness.” She thought for a moment, 
and then added, “I think I have hit on a plan to prove our grati- 
tude, though it can never repay the obligation it imposes on us. 
It is certain, my dear Sophy, that wholesome as this climate ap- 


124 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


pears to be, there will be more or less of sickness among iis; ac- 
cidents, too, it is probable, will happen, even if there be not (which 
Heaven forbid), wounds received in active warfare with our un- 
known neighbors; in any case, some kind of hospital will be nec- 
essary. Why should we not fit up our fourth and largest room 
— for which we ourselves liave no real need— as a sick ward, 
where we may nurse our benefactors in their hour of need?” 

At this Aunt Sophia clapped her hands for joy. The prop- 
osition was one which suited not only her feelings, but her ca- 
pacity, for she was a first-rate nurse. It was necessary to com- 
municate their design to tlie captain, who, after some demur, ac- 
ceded to the proposal. For some days they knew not what leisure 
meant; but their toil was of the pleasantest kind, since its object 
was the benefit of others. Under the surgeon’s superintendSTtce 
they selected from tlie ship’s stores everything necessary for their 
purpose, and with their own fingers pulled enough lint to suffice 
for the casualties of a general engagement. 

That discovery of the fish-bone brought indeed the curse of 
labor upon all the dwellers in that isle of Eden. Not a moment 
was lost in putting the encampment, if such a term could be ap- 
plied to what was no longer a mere assemblage of tents, but 
which included a wooden hut or two of some pretensions, into a 
state of defence. A barricade was erected between it and the 
sea, made by driving a double row of strong posts into the sand, 
interlaced with the branches of trees. The spaces between these 
rows were filled with logs of wood, stone, and sand, to render it 
solid. On the inside a bank was raised, on which the men could 
stand and fire if attacked, with an opening left for one of the six- 
pounders which they had contrived to bring on shore. Two 
large swivels were also mounted upon rocks, enclosed within the 
line of fortification, so that they could be pointed in all directions; 
and the breastwork was continued round Ladies’ Bay right up 
the dill foot. 

These preparations, intended to inspire confidence, had a di- 
rectly opposite effect with Aunt Sophia. She already beheld 
their island home invaded by countless savages, with whom scalp- 
ing was a pastime, and burning their enemies alive a festive cele- 
bration. Henceforth she could never be persuaded by her com- 
panion to explore any portion of the island without an escort, 
and rarely even to set foot outside the barricade. 

To Edith, on the contrary, this sense of impending peril was not 
altogether one of apprehension, and in truth had a certain charm 
of its own, which was due to its strangeness. Mr. Doyle, who saw 
much of her at this period, once remarked that Miss Edith had a 
passion for novelty greater than any he had observed in her sex; 
but the fact was that she hailed anything that was a distraction 
to her thoughts, even though it were anxiety itself. It is in this 
condition of our faculties, fortunately a rare one, that the mind 
is most accessible to new impressions. 


VISITORS. 


125 


One morning, as the two ladies sat in the porch, Edith with 
paint-brush in liand, finishing a little water-color sketch of their 
rampart she had begun the day before, which Master Conolly 
had begged of her, and Aunt Sophia reading aloud from Walter 
Scott, the young midshipman came flying towards them through 
the passage that connected the two bays. His face was flushed 
with excitement more than speed, his eyes sparkled, his voice 
trembled with the weight of his news, as he exclaimed, “Some 
one has come at last!” 

“Some one!” shrieked Aunt Sophia, dropping ‘Quentin Dur- 
ward’ from her lap. “Do you mean the savages?” 

He shook his head. 

“ Great Heaven! Is it an English ship?” 

The poor lady’s ecstasy was but short-lived, for the lad shook 
his head again. 

At the same time Edith uttered a deep sigh, which he mistook 
for one of regret. 

“ I don’t know what they are,” he said; “come and see with 
your own eyes.” 

Edith rose at once to accompany him, and Aunt Sophia, rather 
than be left by herself, followed her example. As they rounded 
the rock, a singular spectacle presented itself. The whole ship’s 
company had the attitude of a state of siege. Every man was at 
the post assigned to him, on the barricade or at the guns, with 
the exception of three persons— the captain, Mr. Marston, and the 
Hindoo interpreter, Gideon Ghorst — who were standing on the 
verge of the sea at a short distance — for it was high tide — the 
first with a white flag in his hand, the other two each with a 
branch of a tree, in token of amity. The reason for this strange 
demonstration was not far to seek. In the harbor, about fifty 
feet from the shore, were two large canoes kept in a state of rest 
by their paddles; their construction was most curious and grace- 
ful. They were between thirty and forty feet long, hollowed, 
apparently, out of a single stem. A balance log at least twenty 
feet long was carried by each at the extremity of two immensely 
long elastic outriggers, the whole presenting the appearance of 
excessive lightness and buoyancy. From stem to stern the canoes 
were filled with the most gorgeous flowers, heaped up in such 
profusion that they almost concealed their tenants. These con- 
sisted in each case of nine persons, whose appearance was so ex- 
traordinary that it was little wonder that the midshipman had 
been unable to classify or describe them. With the exceptrou of 
one individual, who. like a native of India, wore waist-cloth and 
turban, they were all clothed in dazzling white; their garments, 
without having the stiffness of the European cut, fitted almost as 
closely, so as to admit of the freest use of the limbs. Their arms 
only, and, as was presently seen, their legs below the knee, were 
bare. Round their foreheads were circlets of red flowers, and 
glso ground their waists, which, contrasting with the hue of their 


126 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


attire, shone like crowns and zones of fire. Mr. Redmayne, who 
had advanced to the ladies backward for the first time in his life, 
his eyes being riveted on this amazing scene, handed Aunt Sophia 
a field-glass. 

“What do you make of them, Miss Norbury?” he inquired, 
excitedly. 

The lady’s scrutiny was long and keen. “I think they are 
angels,” presently she murmured, in awe-struck tones, and passed 
on the glass to Edith. 

If grace of form constitutes an angel. Aunt Sophia’s diagnosis 
would have been correct. So far as the assisted eye could judge 
of these strange visitors, they were indeed glorious specimens of 
humanity. Their color was a fine bronze, no darker than that of 
a European who has lived long in a sultry climate; their hair was 
black, and very luxuriant, though so neatly arranged and confined 
in braids and plaits that it was difficult to judge of its length. 
No more feminine appearance was thereby imparted to them, how- 
ever, than by the fillets worn by our street athletes; their forms — 
to judge by the two who were standing up and directing the row- 
ers with their hands — were too majestic and suggestive of strength. 

Had the castaways been the savages whom they had presup- 
posed their visitors would be, they might well have imagined that 
those they thus beheld were gods. Astonishment, however, was 
by no means confined to one side. The eyes of the new-comers 
ranged over the encampment, the guns, and the little group of 
men on the shore, with the wildest surprise. 

Presently the captain, raising his voice so that it could be heard 
by both parties, directed the interpreter to address them in Malay, 
which was immediately done. Thereupon the native with the 
turban spoke a few hurried words with the man upstanding in 
his canoe, and then replied, “Who are you, whom we find upon 
our Island of Flowers, and are 3^)11 at peace with us or at war?” 
Then the interpreter, in obedience to the captain’s orders, replied 
that they were unfortunate Englishmen who had lost their ship 
upon the reef, and that they were their friends. 

On this the two leaders interchanged a word or two, and with- 
out a moment of hesitation the canoes were paddled to shore. This 
WTis done with such rapidity that the captain was unable, as it had 
been his intention to do, to go into the water to meet them — a sign 
of confidence and conciliation in such cases. He instantly, how- 
ever, pressed forward, stretching out his hand to one of the leaders. 
The latter took it daintily in his palm, and considered it with 
much attention, the others crowding round with expressions of 
wonder and delight. They had, as their companion the Malay 
explained, never seen a white man before, and the blue veins in 
his hands were what had excited their surprise. 

The captain on this rolled up his sleeve to let them see that this 
specialty was not local; whereupon they showed him their own 
arms, which were in their turn also peculiar, being tattooed, 


THE SONG. 


127 


from the wrist to the shoulder, with every description of flowers. 
One of the two leaders had evidently a superiority over his fel- 
low, for which it was difficult to account; his manner was less 
aignified, and his curiosity and wonder more openly expressed; 
and, on seeing the captain button his waistcoat, which happened 
to have come undone, he burst into a musical laugh, which was 
instantly echoed by the rest. His face was the most good-natured, 
though without weakness, it is possible to imagine, and his gentle 
and unsuspicious manners were those of a child. This personage, 
as the Malay, who could speak a little English, gave them to un- 
derstand, was Masiric, brother of King Taril, who ruled the neigh- 
boring island. 

At a word from the captain, the rest of the officers came out of 
the encampment to be introduced to the visitors. They naturally 
held out their hands, which, however, the others declined, their 
curiosity in that direction having been sufficiently gratified. On 
being informed, however, that shaking hands was a proof of 
friendship, they entered upon that exercise with great enthusiasm; 
nor could they be easily induced to leave it off. It being break- 
fast-time, some tea and sweet biscuits were brought down for the 
strangers, who partook of the beverage with seeming enjoyment; 
nor was it discovered till long after that they thought it the nasti- 
est that had ever passed their lips. In every movement, look, and 
word they were, in short, the pink of courtesy, and the most cordial 
relations were at once established between the two parties. 

As they sat upon the ground at their repast, Edith’s curiosity 
to get a nearer view of them induced her, in company with Mr. 
Redmayne, to approach the group. No sooner did they catch 
sight of her than all, with one accord, uttered a cry of joy mingled 
with awe, and, leaping to their feet, rushed away to their canoes. 
From thence they presently returned, laden with flowers, and, ad- 
vancing towards her with every demonstration of respect, heaped 
them up at her feet, and then prostrated themselves on the sand. 

“What shall I say to them?” she inquired, eagerly, of the inter- 
preter. “What is it they take me for?” 

“They worship flowers,” explained the Malay, “and they take 
you for their goddess.” 

“And a very natural error to fall into, too,” said Mr. Redmayne, 
under his breath. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE SONG. 

It falls to the lot of very few of us to be worshipped even meta- 
phorically; and Edith Norbury’s position seemed to her a sufli- 
ciently embarrassing one; but the fact was that under the circum- 
stances she could hardly have gone wrong in whatever she did. 
Persons of the blood royal find it very easy to satisfy the require- 


128 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


ments of their “obedient humble servants,” and a divinity has, of 
course, still less difficulty in such matters. It was natural to Edith 
to smile and look pleasant, and in so doing she fulfilled all that 
was expected of her. Moreover, as it so happened, these good 
people were in the most admirable mood for unquestioning devo- 
tion. Deep hid in the Isle of Flowers, which it seemed was its 
native designation, was a rude altar, to which at certain seasons, 
of which this was one, these children of nature came to pay their 
vows. Their offerings they had brought with them, and finding, 
as they imagined, the goddess in person to receive them, it seeniecl 
superfluous to seek her shrine. The situation had that sort of 
sublimity about it which is only one step removed from the ridicu- 
lous; had Edith been a man, for example, and one of the captain’s 
build, his appearance with so much floral decoration would have 
suggested to the irreverent and European mind a jack-in-the- 
green ; as it was, being a woman, and a very pretty one, she 
seemed, as she stood knee-deep in bud and blossom, even to her 
own countrymen, as at least a charming Queen of the May, and 
their evident admiration assisted the impression produced upon 
the visitors. 

Even Mr. Bates was pleased, because, as he explained to one of 
his henchmen, if these people didn’t know a girl from a goddess, 
it was plain that they must be simple indeed, and that if the young 
woman only played her cards decently well, she could get anything 
she wanted out of them, which would be to the benefit of the whole 
community. That she should hesitate to take advantage of their 
ignorance never entered into his mind, and indeed for the present 
it was difficult, and as the Malay suggested, would be exceedingly 
injudicious, to do otherwise. Edith herself was tortured with 
scruples; the position thus involuntarily thrust upon her w^as not 
only like that of the Lady of Burleigh, “ the burden of an honor 
to which she was not born,” and for which she felt wholly unfit- 
ted, but seemed also to savor of impiety. Aunt Sophia, however, 
joined with the captain in advising her at least to be silent. Per- 
haps she felt a secret pride in finding so near a relative promoted, 
though by mistake, to such an immense elevation, while at the 
same time she experienced a little natural jealousy at having no 
share of these celestial honors. “ They will very soon find out, 
my dear Edith, without your telling them, that you are no god- 
dess,” was her naive reply to her niece’s scruples. At this Edith 
smiled-— dispensed, as it seemed to them, one more ray to her en- 
raptured worshippers— and withdrew as “divinely” as she could 
to Ladies’ Bay, followed by Master Conolly laden with her floral 
tributes; just as some prima donna who, on returning from a scene 
in which she had been overwhelmed by public favor, is obliged 
to call in assistance to carry her bouquets. 

While the visitors w^ere being shown over the encampment, 
every object of which awakened in them a new world of thought, 
the Malay, in the intervals of interpretation, told the captain what 


THE SONG. 


129 


he knew of their new friends. He himself— according to his own 
account, one of the best and most trustworthy of mankind— had 
met, as good men do, with great misfortunes. On a voyage from 
Canton to Amboyna his vessel had been driven far out of her 
course, and been wrecked ten months ago on the neighboring isl- 
and, which was called Breda. Not a soul had been saved except 
himself; but the people had proved very kind to him, as no doubt 
they would prove to the captain and his crew. So far, however, 
from being effeminate, as they might appear, the natives of 
Breda were a very powerful and warlike race; which they had 
need to be, since on its sister island, Amrac, there dwelt a savage 
and cruel people, with whom they were always at war. The 
island on which they now were, named Faybur (or Isle of Flow- 
ers), unclaimed by either and common to both, was seldom visited 
by the inhabitants of Breda, except, as on the present occasion, 
for devotional purposes, and by those of Amrac (who worshipped 
nothing) still more rarely. As to the possibilities of rescue, it was 
the Malay’s opinion that the Ganges was the first European ship 
that had ever sailed these seas; on Faybur he had been given to 
understand that there were no trees fit for the construction of 
canoes, much more of any larger vessel; and even in Breda the 
timber, though extraordinarily light and buoyant, was of a very 
perishable nature. 

This news had some satisfaction, but more cf discourKgement, in 
it. It was probable that from their present visitors and their friends 
no evil was to be apprehended; hut there was no knowing what 
changes might arise from their common enemies on the other island; 
while it seemed only too likely that where they were, there they 
must be content to remain for the rest of their natilral lives. The 
captain himself had no family ties, nor was his mind much given 
to sentiment; but this decree (for such it must needs prove, if the 
information of the Malay was correct) of perpetual separation 
from all that was familiar affected him not a little. He felt, too 
— for his heart was kind — for those of his people who had wives 
and children, whose faces they were never to see more, and whose 
homes would be worse than desolate, because haunted by false 
hopes of their return. His pity was especially claimed by the 
two women (so unfitted by their bringing up to face such a calam- 
ity) whom Fate had committed to his charge, and for whose future, 
so full of peril, he had become responsible. To make arrange- 
ments beyond the passing hour for them was impossible; truly, 
indeed, could it be said of them that they could not know' what a 
day might bring forth. Not even the present could be relied 
upon, since for the captain — who had the prejudices, or perhaps it 
would be fairer to say the experience, of his class — the very name 
of Malay was a symbol of bad faith. He had to take his descrip- 
tion of the state of affairs for granted, not because he trusted in 
the man’s word, but because there was no evidence to be pro- 
cured from any other source. 

9 


130 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


A circumstance at this moment occurred which, to say the 
least of it, did not tend to increase his confidence in the go-between 
in question. The captain had besought him, in a few earnest 
words, on introducing the new arrivals into the camp, to say noth- 
ing of the nature of its armament; to keep their visitors in igno- 
rance of the existence of that last resource of civilization — powder 
and shot — was of the utmost importance; and everything connect- 
ed with fire-arms had been carefully put out of sight except the 
cannon, which could not well be disposed of, but whose presence 
could easily be explained to such simple inquirers on the ground 
of decoration. Where all was novel, a brace of swivels, and 
another of six pounders, would excite neither more nor less of 
curiosity than other objects the uses of which would be equally 
unintelligible to them; and so, indeed, it had turned out. The 
visitors had made the circuit of the camp, and, gorged with un- 
digested information as any young gentleman who goes up for a 
competitive examination at Burlington House, were about, with 
many signs of friendly satisfaction, to return to their canoe, when 
one of them discovered upon the sand a bullet. This object, care- 
lessly dropped and as carelessly left where it fell, or perhaps too 
small to attract an eye less keen than that of a savage, at once 
riveted his attention. The weight of it as contrasted with its 
minuteness awakened his wonder, and he instantly turned to the 
Malay for a solution of the phenomenon. The explanation was 
short and swift, and seemed sufficient, for the native pushed his 
inquiries no further; but, on the other hand, he hid the bullet in 
his robe, as the captain shrewdly suspected, for further investiga- 
tion and inquiry. The Malay, had he chosen to do so, might have 
put an end to all discussion on the matter by affecting to treat it 
as of no importance and returning the bullet to its proper owner 
or even throwing it into the sea. It was evident he had wits and 
presence of mind enough to have adopted this course, had he been 
so inclined; and the fact that he had not done so was full of sin- 
ister significance. The possession of this little object would give 
him the key to a secret which he would have been otherwise un- 
able to render intelligible to his companions. To reproach him 
with any such design was, however, out of the question ; not to 
quarrel with him, and through him to conciliate the others as 
much as possible, was the only course open to the castaways. 

It was, then, with a heavy heart that the captain saw his vis- 
itors about to depart. On the one hand, it was a matter of great 
convenience, and one which did away with much necessary mis- 
conception, that an interpreter between the two parties had 
been found; on the other, it placed in what might prove to be 
unworthy or even hostile hands, a vast and irresponsible power. 
It was to be hoped, indeed, of a people apparently so genial and 
good-natured, that they would draw favorable conclusions for 
themselves of their new neighbors, but it was certain that their 
judgment was liable to be warped and perverted by the only per- 


A VOLUNTARY EXIT, 


131 


sonage who was in a position to speak with knowledge, and 
whose interests might prompt him to misrepresentation. 

A present of some kind was given to each visitor; nor was tlie 
Mala}' himself forgotten. Indeed, the captain showed no little 
diplomacy in giving him one of precisely the same kind that was 
assigned to Prince Masiric, by which he wished not only to please 
its recipient but to arouse some jealousy in the breast of his royal 
highness. Gifts, too, of various kinds w'ere forwarded to King 
Taril — a present of tea (which his Majesty, as it was afterw'ards 
discovered, took in pinches raw, in preference to the usual decoc- 
tion), a jar of sugar-candy, a pound of the sweet biscuits which 
had given such pleasure to his subjects, and several yards of scar- 
let cloth. 

Laden with these treasures, and delighted with their amazing 
experiences, the visitors were stepping into their vessels, when 
from the Ladies’ Bay the voice of Master Conolly, singing a Scotch 
song, was borne upon the evening breeze. The effect upon his na- 
tive audience was most remarkable. No exclamation of pleasure 
broke, as before, from their lips, but “ the hushed amaze of hand 
and eye ” testified to their delight and wonder. Then, with inef- 
fable softness, so as not to interrupt the strain, the word “ Deltis ” 
passed from one to the other. The captain would have inquired 
of the Malay what this meant, but Masiric held up his finger for 
silence. A strange picture, indeed, in that exquisite frame of 
Nature’s handiwork was this band of enraptured savages, listen- 
ing as though to a voice from heaven (and, in truth, it lacked 
neither sweetness nor pathos) to the song of the unseen lad : 

“ Hame, hame, hame, oh hame fain wad I be, 

Oh hame, hame, hame to my ain eountrie! 

When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, 

The lark shall sing me hame to my ain eountrie I 
Hame, hame, hame, oh hame fain wad I be, 

Oh hame, hame, hame to my ain eountrie 1” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A VOLUNTARY EXIT. 

Not till the song had ceased did the attention of the visitors 
relax for one instant, and with its last note an answering thrill 
seemed to pervade their giant frames. In Breda, explained the 
Malay, singing was utterly unknown; nor did even any bird sing, 
save one they called the Deltis, wdiich had a flute-like note, not 
unlike that of the young midshipman, and which, visiting them 
only at rare intervals, was held, in a manner, sacred. Masiric 
could not be persuaded that what he had heard was a melody 
produced by the human voice, so the captain ordered Conolly 
to be sent for, to give in their presence another specimen of his 


132 


A. PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


powers. As a rule, midshipmen are not shy, and fortunately he 
was no exception to the rule, or the task might well have proved 
embarrassing. Moreover, not knowing what a sensation he had 
made already, he had no idea how much was expected of him. 
But whether by accident or design, he selected a song of a very 
different kind from its predecessor, “ Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace 
bled,” which he gave with a great deal of vigor and feeling. The 
effect was even more striking than that of his previous effort, for 
the visitors, as if roused to frenzy by the stirring strains, flew to 
their canoes, and, snatching from them each a club — weapons 
they had hitherto kept concealed — performed a sort of war-dance 
in rhythmic measure. A more complete triumph was never 
achieved by singer; nor, on the other hand, did ever success exact 
so severe a penalty. 

There was a hurried conversation with the Malay, and then, on 
behalf of the visitors, he besought, as the greatest favor and 
strongest mark of friendship that could be shown them, that the 
young midshipman should be allowed to accompany them to 
Breda. The captain stood irresolute; there might be great ad- 
vantage in such an arrangement for the ship’s company, but 
there was also danger to the envoy. “ He shall not go unless he 
wishes it himself,” was the resolution arrived at, as he watched 
the color come and go in the young fellow’s cheek. Then he 
took him aside and spoke with him. “If you shrink from this 
undertaking, as well you may, my lad,” he said, kindl}^** do not 
hesitate to say so; it may, no doubt, be of great benefit to us, if 
by your singing you please the king as you have pleased his peo- 
ple; but there is much risk in it, and you have a mother at home 
to whom I am accountable for your safety, and of whom it be- 
hooves us both to think.” 

“I will go, sir; but I should like to wish good-by first to Miss 
Edith Norbury,” was the lad’s simple repl3^ 

Under other circumstances, such a request "would certainly 
have provoked some ridicule from one so little given to sentiment 
as his commander, in whose eyes Master Lewis Conolly did not 
seem to have long emerged from the nursery. As things were, 
however, and considering the nature of the venture the boy was 
willing to make, his very youth gave seriousness to his appeal. 
As the captain was about to give him the desired permission, 
Edith herself made her appearance from Ladies’ Bay. The news 
had already reached her of what had been proposed, and, in an 
agony of apprehension for the lad’s safety, she had determined — 
reluctant as she was to interfere with the dispositions of authority 
— to make her protest. 

^ Her presence, as it happened, was welcome to neither her iwo- 
tege nor to the captain. The former would have fain made his 
farewell out of sight of prying eyes ; the latter was chagrined 
that she should ha^^e thus run the risk of cheapening herseff by a 
second appearance before those on whom she had made so mar- 


A VOLUNTARY EXIT. 


133 


vellous an impression. The mischief, however, if mischief it were, 
was done. AVith rapid step, flushed cheek, and eager eye, Edith 
came down to the shore, and as she did so, the visitors, as before, 
prostrated themselves on the sand. Of them she took no notice 
(an undersigned piece of diplomacy which probably increased her 
reputation with them), but addressed herself at once to the captain, 

“ IsV® possible. Captain Head, that you are about to send this 
fathe^Wss boy among a strange and, it may be, a barbarous peo- 
ple, vithout a single friend or the means of making one, on the 
possible chance of .benefit to those he leaves behind him? Let 
two/of them — for I am speaking for my relative as well as for 
myl^elf — the two on whom, if evil falls, will suffer the most from 
it, entreat of you to make no such sacrifice of a brave bo}'^ for our 
poor sakes; we are women, but we are not such cowards as to 
wish to be saved from danger at that cost,” She spoke with ex- 
ceeding earnestness and passion ; her theme not only elevated her 
usual style, but seemed to inspire her very frame wdlh a dignity 
hitherto unknown to it. The visitors uttered a low cry of awe 
and deprecation at the sight of the ire of their goddess, 

“ jMadam,” replied the captain, quietly, “you do me wrong. 
This boy, as he will tell you, has received no orders from me to 
comply with our visitors’ request. On the contrary, I have re- 
minded him that he has a mother at home who, should we ever, 
God willing, return to our native land, will ask me, ‘ AVhere is my 
son?’ and woe be to me if I have to answer ‘His blood is on my 
hands.’ But if he himself is willing — ” 

“Oh, shame upon you!” interrupted the girl, with vehemence, 
“you mean if he himself is brave enough to lose his young life 
for our sakes, why should we hesitate to take advantage of so 
much simplicity and courage?” 

The captain bit his lips and was silent. 

He was one of those men whose nature, invincible by fire and 
sword, shrinks from the sharpness of a woman’s tongue, 

“The captain is quite right. Miss Edith,” said the young mid- 
shipman, softly ; “he has placed no compulsion on me of any 
kind; but he has offered me an opportunity of distinguishing 
myself, such as falls to the lot of few men of my age ” — it was 
with difficulty Edith here repressed a smile, in which, however, 
it would have been cruel, irnleed, to have indulged — “and I am 
fully resolved to embrace it; I shall come back again, safe and 
sound, no doubt; but if I do not, you will think of me as having 
done my duty, and — and — not forget me.” 

The tears rushed to Edith’s eyes; but, remembering in whose 
presence she stood, and how important it was that she should ex- 
hibit no sign of weakness, she restrained them. She turned to 
the captain with an interrogating glance, but he shook his head. 
“I will say neither yes nor no, madam, in this matter; it never 
was one of discipline or duty, and 1 wash my liauds of it. You 
must just settle it your own way.” 


134 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


“The wind is rising,” said the Malay, impatiently, to Gideon 
Ghorst, “and our canoes are unfitted for rough weather; we are 
anxious to be off, and my people here hope that nothing has oc- 
curred to prevent the fulfilment of your promise as regards this 
young gentleman.” 

As he spoke, he threw at Conolly a glance of unmistakable dis- 
favor, which did not escape the captain’s attention.^ “ There has 
been no promise,” he answered, coldly, when this speech was 
translated to him, “Now, madam, it is for you to decide.” ^ 

There is nothing so popular with the crowd as an occasional 
self-abnegation of authority, and this deference on the part of 
their chief to Edith’s opinion was extremely well received by the 
ship’s company. They quite understood the affair to be one out 
of the ordinary course, and to be settled by no ordinary rules. 
As for the visitors, Edith’s decision had only to be explained to 
them to be unhesitatingly accepted as law, 

“The issue. Captain Head, which you have placed in my feeble 
hands,” she answered, modestly, but in tones so distinct that all 
around her could hear, “ is, I feel, far too momentous for tliem to 
deal with. I do not, however, shrink from the responsibility you 
have imposed upon me. Let Mr. Conolly go, since he wishes it; 
but not utterly friendless, or without the means of communicat- 
ing with his fellow-countrymen. Let our own interpreter be his 
companion, as he is the only medium of intercourse between us 
and our neighbors; they will prize him for their own sakes, and 
since whenever they visit us they must needs bring him with 
them, we shall always learn how our young envoy fares.” This 
proposal was received by the whole ship’s company with three 
ringing cheers; for while it possessed for themselves all the ad- 
vantages for which they hoped, it mitigated the circumstances of 
the volunteer exile, whose youth appealed to every heart, and for 
whom almost every one felt both gratitude and pity. 

To the Malay, however, the suggestion was very far from wel- 
come. “The canoes are light,” he murmured, in broken English, 
“and already overladen.” 

“Our men need not go in the same canoe,” returned the cap- 
tain, dryly; “so no more risk will be run by one than the other. 
You will take both men or none — that is my last word,” 

Some discussion followed between the Malay and his friends, 
whom he was obviously endeavoring to win over to his own 
views; but it was put an end to by the presence of mind of 
Edith, who, addressing the Prince Masiric by his own name (a 
circumstance which caused his royal knees to knock together), 
pointed with out-stretched finger first to the midshipman and then 
to the interpreter — a gesture that was instantly understood and its 
command complied with. In less than a minute the whole party, 
with its two additions, were afloat, and the canoes began to glide 
with amazing swiftness towards the harbor mouth. The young 
midshipman was in the second of them, and kept his eyes fixed 


THE COPPER KETTLE. 


135 


upon the “lessening shore” with pathetic persistence. lie was 
hardly more than a child in years, and such a parting would have 
been a sufficiently trying one to even the most seasoned sailor; 
indeed, there were others besides Edith and Aunt Sophia to whose 
eyes tears forced their way as they beheld the last of him; but 
the lad himself betrayed no symptom of weakness. When the 
full- voiced adieu involuntarily arose from the shore, conveying 
the good wishes of those he was probably about to leave forever, 
he had even the spirit to reply to it in a characteristic manner by 
singing a verse from ‘ ‘ The Farewell to Ayrshire ” — 

“Friends, that parting tear, reserve it, 

Though ’tis doubly dear to me; 

Could 1 think I did deserve it, 

How much happier should 1 be” — 

an appropriate reply enough to the general voice, but the song 
was a favorite one with Edith, and it is possible that it was in- 
tended to have a meaning for her private ear. 

“ It is like sending forth the dove from the ark, which always 
struck me as a cruel experiment,” sobbed Aunt Sophia. 

“Let us hope, madam, that, like the dove, he will come back 
with the olive - branch,” said the captain, cheerfully; but his 
rough and weather-beaten face, like that of many a one beside 
him, was full of tenderness and sorrow. As to Edith, she had no 
heart to speak, but wept in silence. 

The harmony of human nature, however, is never universal, 
but has always some hitch or jar in it. 

“I hope we’ve seen the last of that jmung whipper-snapper,” 
was Mr. Bates’s observation to his henchman, Matthew Murdoch, 
as the canoes rounded the headland. “As he’s so young and 
tender, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if the savages boiled and 
ate him.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE COPPER KETTLE. 

Days and weeks went by without any news of the young mid- 
shipman, or any second visit from those to whom he had so cour- 
ageously intrusted himself. This silence, though very distress- 
ing to those who mourned his loss and reproached themselves 
for having taken advantage of his chivalrous offer, was, however, 
explicable from natural causes. Of course, it might be that the 
intention of their neighbors had been misunderstood, and their 
pretended friendship only one of those cunning devices which 
savages often put into practice, sometimes to carry out some cruel 
design, but more often without any other aim beyond that of 
gratifying their taste for duplicity; but the idea of their having 
played so treacherous a part did not commend itself to the sober 


136 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


judgment of the captain, though it excited the apprehensions of 
the ladies. But while almost convinced that the lad stood in no 
peril from the hands of his unknown hosts, he had more serious 
doubts than he cared to expi^ess as to whether he had ever reached 
them. The storm, which the Malay had predicted, must have 
come up before the frail canoes, swift as they were, could possi- 
bly have got home, and they were quite unfitted to live in a heavy 
sea. On the other hand, if they had survived the passage, there 
was reason enough in the rough weather that had since prevailed 
to account for their not having again attempted it. Though the 
castaways thought nothing of it, and tlie waters of the harbor, 
protected by the coral reef, remained almost unruflied, there was 
wild work on the sea; and what the sea could do in those lati- 
tudes the crew of the sunk Ganges had good reason to know. 

Every day, from the lookout station, Edith Norbuiy gazed with 
anxious eyes upon the island, looking through the misty foam 
more vague than ever, but which had now so strong a personal 
interest for her; but she gazed in vain. Distressing, however, as 
were her fears for the. safety of the boy envoy, they in some meas- 
ure usurped the place of her former woe, and were preferable to 
it inasmuch as they admitted of a solution. She was never tired 
of talking of the lad and of his heroic self-sacrifice, and in the 
hopes of his return seemed to find that tie to life which had hith- 
erto been wanting to her. Under other circumstances, the signifi- 
cance of this change would not have escaped her companion’s 
observation; nor, indeed, did it altogether do so, since in after-days 
she often recalled the impression it had produced; but, for the 
present, Aunt Sophia’s mind was too much occupied with material 
matters to concern itself with psychological observation. 

The preparations for the defence of the camp were pushed on 
unceasingly; sentries were posted day and night; there was con- 
stant practice with small-arms, though no powder was expended; 
and all these indications of impending strife filled her with alarm. 
How Edith could range the island as she did without an escort 
was amazing to Aunt Sophia; nor could she be made to under- 
stand that the rough weather which prevented the inhabitants of 
Breda from repeating their visit must equally preclude any hos- 
tile manifestations from Amrac. Moreover, though she had had 
no official information of the matter, she was conscious that there 
were troubles in the camp itself, which her fears easily magnified 
into acts of mutiny. There had been meetings of the officers, 
and whisperings among the men, and though there was no mani- 
festation of discontent, there was evidently a chord amiss in the 
general harmony that had hitherto prevailed. The truth was that 
there had been more than one case of drunkenness in the camp— 
an offence under other circumstances trivial enough, but which, 
as matters stood, was of the greatest importance. 

For the question involved not only theft, but what was even a 
more serious crime, since it implied a guilty knowledge shared 


THE COEPEE KETTLE. 


137 


by many — fraudulent concealment. Either the strong liquor in 
charge of the doctor had been stolen, or the destruction of the 
liquor casks had not been so complete as was supposed. The 
latter alternative was the more probable, since no liquor was 
missed from the store, while the drunkenness— though limited at 
present to some half-dozen cases — went on almost unceasingly. 
In every case the culprits denied that they were guilty, and in- 
stanced the impossibility of their getting drunk as proof of their 
innocence. This was hard to get over; and though the captain 
was not the sort of man to accept the explanation of “atmos- 
pheric influence” advanced under such 'circumstances by the ac- 
cused, he was sorely puzzled how to act. The very plea dis- 
turbed him not a little; for it was not such an excuse as would 
occur to the ordinary sailor’s mind. It seemed to point to some 
ruling and superior spirit behind the offenders. The crime itself, 
too, was, in their position, of the most dangerous kind, and might 
lead at once to mutiny and ruin. In the mean time, he kept these 
things as much as possible from the ladies’ ears. 

One morning, after Edith had paid her usual visit to the look- 
out station, she was tempted by the loveliness of the day to ex- 
tend her ramble. The weather, indeed, on the island was almost 
invariably clear and fine, hut for the first time for weeks the dis- 
turbance of the sea showed signs of abatement; the clouds to the 
northward were lifting, and once more revealed the island which 
formed the subject of so much interested speculation to her. 
Even in the bays it was now po.ssible to find shelter; and, descend- 
ing from the higher ground, she took her way along them in con- 
templative mood. Headland after headland was thus rounded 
without her taking particular note of anything, but drinking in 
the freshness and beauty of the varied scene with unconscious 
pleasure. In this way, without knowing it, she had made half the 
circuit of the little territoiy, and was only made conscious of the 
fact by perceiving that she was receding from and turning her 
back \ipon the neighboring island. Having got so far, she resolved 
to complete the round and return to the camp, as she had not 
hitherto done, the other way, when a circumstance occurred of 
which she thought little at the time, but which had its results. 

Behind a projecting cliff there lay one of those defiles, filled 
with brightness and color from a thousand flowers — though the 
sun was absent from it — of which the island possessed so many. 
She was wondering whether it might prove a short-cut ta the 
camp, when she perceived a thin line of smoke wavering among 
the trees. It startled but did not alarm her. It could only pro- 
ceed, of course, from some fire kindled by members of the camp, 
and it struck her that she would inquire of them whether there 
were any difiiculties in the unknown route she was about to take. 
As she turned iq) the chine, as it would have been called had it 
been ujion the English sea-coast, she sudderdy came upon a little 
hollow in which liaif a dozen men were seated round a huge cop- 


138 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


per kettle. At her approach they all jumped up with a quick- 
ness that seemed suggestive of something more .than mere respect, 
and one of them came forward to meet her. It was Matthew 
Murdoch, the man who had been placed in irons on the appoint- 
ment of the captain to his command. His look was angry, and 
even menacing, and he stood between her and the rest, with his 
great arms akimbo, as if to stop the way. 

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, ’’she said, gently, “but I 
have walked farther than I intended, and thought this might be 
a nearer way home than that by which I have come.” 

“ Well, it isn’t; it’s a longer way, and, let me tell you, a very 
dangerous one,” was the gruff reply. 

“A very dangerous one?” 

“ He means precipices and that, miss, ’’explained another sailor, 
stepping forward. 

“No, he doesn’t,” growled Murdoch, “ he means what he says, 
and she’ll find it out if she comes much farther.” 

“Tush, tush!” exclaimed the other man; “you mustn’t mind 
him, miss; but indeed it’s not a safe road to those who don’t 
know it; and you had better go back as you came.” 

Edith thanked him in her usual quiet tones, and at once began 
to retrace her steps. Once only she ventured to look back, and 
beheld both the men standing together where she had left them, 
with the blue smoke rising over their heads. She had, as she 
supposed, interrupted some out -door festivity, and thereby in- 
curred the wrath of the under-fellow. There was no harm done 
after all, nor did she nourish any resentment against him ; but this 
unaccustomed roughness of treatment distressed her. With the 
men in general she had always been popular, and though the sul- 
len behavior of one or two had not escaped her notice, she had 
set it down to a natural moroseness of character; but in this man 
there had been evidently intentional rudeness, and she could not 
help reflecting, in the unhappy circumstances in which Aunt So- 
phia and herself were placed, how much they owed to the influ- 
ence of authority, and how powerless they would be without it 
to shield themselves from insult. Never before did she feel so 
keenly the want of what is termed “a natural protector” — one 
bound by the ties of blood or otherwise to make her quarrel his 
own. To the captain and his officers she was conscious of being 
under a hundred obligations, for which she had not been ungrate- 
ful; but it had never before been borne in upon her how entirely 
dependent upon them were Aunt Sophia and herself, even for 
those rights which in less exceptional communities are common 
and assured to all. It was a reflection she did not dwell upon, 
and which in a few minutes lost its edge, but having once entered 
her mind it remained there; and though perhaps unconsciously 
to herself, had no doubt a material effect upon her subsequent 
course of conduct. 

Though well resolved to make no complaint of the manner in 


ROYALTIES. 


139 


which she hud been treated, albeit it had had in truth more of in- 
dignity, if not of insult, in it than can be gathered by mere de- 
scription, the incident itself had made so strong an impression 
upon her that she related it with reservation to Aunt Sophia, who 
in her turn related it to Mr. Marston, 

“ Your aunt tells me 5mu had an adventure this morning,” he 
observed to Edith, when he met her later in the day. 

“ Indeed it was not worth repeating,” she said, hurriedly, lest 
some imprudence of his informant should get any of the people 
into trouble. “ It w^as only that I came upon some of your sail- 
ors making tea, who were so good as to warn me not to come 
home by a new way, as I had intended, and whereby I might have 
come to harm.” 

“ And where was it they were when you came upon them?” 

Edith described the place as well as she could, eulogized their 
choice of a locality for their picnic at once so beautif^ul and so 
secluded, and dimly conscious of mischief, endeavored to make 
matters as pleasant and innocent as she could. 

“And how do you know, Miss Edith, that the men were mak- 
ing tea?” 

“ Well, I don’t know it,” she answered, smiling; “ they did not 
offer me any, it is true, but as they had a fire lit, and a large ket- 
tle upon it, I concluded as much.” 

“And no doubt you are right,” returned the officer, carelessly. 
“Only it seemed strange that they should have troubled them- 
selves to take their kettle so far from home.” 

The explanation allayed Edith’s suspicions for the moment, 
but before nightfall a rumor from the camp reached her ears 
which filled her with consternation. It w^as said that in some 
secret spot on the farthest extremity of the island, the authorities 
liad discovered certain implements, including a copper boiler and 
a coil of metal, technically called the worm, used in distillation; 
and that the same had been employed in extracting from the Ti- 
root (or, as Mr. Doyle more scientifically termed it, Dracaena ter- 
minalis) an ardent spirit. Here, then, was the mystery explained 
of those late cases of intoxication which had so puzzled and alarmed 
the authorities, and Edith Norbury had been the innocent cause 
of its solution. The tea-party which she had been so unfortunate 
as to interrupt had been in fact a private still. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

ROYALTIES. 

One morning the ladies were startled at their breakfast hour 
by most unusual sounds — the boatswain’s whistle, followed by a 
hum of voices and a confused uproar such as is audible in the 
movement of any large number of persons, even on sand. There 
was also a sort of hollow murmur, as though a band of horn-blow- 


140 


A PlilXCE OP THE ELOOD. 


ers were practising on their instruments for the first time. This 
latter noise continued after the others had ceased. The rampart 
that ran round their bay instead of its solitary sentinel was now 
lined with men, who, however, had placed themselves out of sight 
of the sea. It seemed only too likely that the long-excepted visit 
from their neighbors had taken the form of an invasion. 

While they sat in doubt, eager to know what had occurred, but 
waiting for orders from the captain, who had bidden them in any 
such case to remain in-doors till he should send them word what 
to do, an emissary arrived from him in the person of Mr. Red- 
mayne. His Majesty of Breda, he said, had arrived, and was about 
to land. He had only brought five canoes with him, but a man 
from the lookout station had brought word that a large fleet filled 
with armed men was in waiting on the farther side of the island. 
It was possible that Edith’s presence might prove of service, but 
the matter was left entirely to her own discretion. She announced 
herself at once as ready to go, and accompanied by Aunt Sophia 
and the second mate, she at once repaired to Rescue Bay. 

The spectacle that presented itself was even more striking than 
on the last occasion. From where the ladies stood they could see 
’the whole camp in a posture of defence, although, beheld from 
without, its appearance was as peaceful as usual. The men were 
lying down in the batteries, and not a musket-barrel peeped above 
the parapet. The king’s canoe, which was of great size, with a 
raised platform in the centre, was coming up the harbor, with 
two others on each side of it, the occupants of which splashed the 
w’ater with their paddles, and flourished them above their heads 
in a graceful and dexterous fashion, while at the same time they 
sounded conch-shells, like mermen in attendance upon tlieir sea 
king. 

On the platform were two persons — one a little overmiddle age, 
of colossal size, with a dignified expression of countenance, and 
the other a much younger man, of slighter build, and with a face 
so bright and eager, and yet withal so gentle, that it might have 
belonged to a child. The absence of beard and whiskers increased 
this appearance of youth, so that, until he rose and displayed his 
figure, which was almost as tall as that of his companion, and 
magnificetUly proportioned, it would have been difiicult to guess 
his age, which was in fact nearly twenty-six. His hair was glossy 
black and had a natural wave in it, equally removed from the crisp 
curl of the negro and the straight hair common to so many tribes 
of the Indian Archipelago. 

Despite the alarm which the situation inspired in Aunt Sophia’s 
bosom, her eye could not rest on so splendid an example of man’s 
outward beauty without approval. 

“Did you ever see such a magnificent 3mung fellow?” she whis- 
pered in Edith’s ear. “ He looks like the bronze Apollo that used 
to stand in your poor uncle’s libraiy.” 

But Edith’s attention was fixed on even a more attraetive 


EOYALTIES. 


141 


object of which she had just caught sight, namely, the missing 
midshipman, who, hitherto obscured by the raised platform, could 
now be seen waving his handkerchief from the same canoe, in 
which the two interpreters were also seated. 

“ Look, look, there is Mr. Conolly !” she exclaimed, excitedly. 

“ The dear, dear boy!” cried Aunt Sophia. “How glad I am!” 
and the tears stood in the eyes of both women. 

At a word from the king two men from the other canoes leaped 
into the water, and made signs to the captain that he should suffer 
himself to be carried in their arms to the royal barge. Such a mode 
of locomotion — though it is called by our children “king’s 
coach ” — is not very dignified, but on understanding that its object 
was to place him on the same platform as the king, thereby imply- 
ing an equally exalted rank, he consented very readily. Then his 
Majesty with much complacency, like one who is exercising a new 
accomplishment, shook hands with the captain and introduced 
him to his son. Prince Tarilam. The latter, to the astonishment 
of the captain, not only shook hands with him, but in very musi- 
cal broken English observed, “ Good-morning, sir,” whereat his 
Majesty clapped his hands triumphantly and gazed upon his off- 
spring with affectionate amazement, like a father who, while rec- 
ognizing the ffenius of his sou, admits with modesty that it is not 
hereditary. 

It must not, however, be concluded that King Taril was defi- 
cient in intelligence. Ko sooner had the procession come ashore 
than he beckoned Prince Masiric, and bade him point out to him. 
those objects of interest the description of which had already 
inflamed his curiosity. The difference between the natures of 
these royal brothers was as distinct as any to be observed in the 
most civilized communities. They were equally observant, but 
the one, like the men of Athens, was captivated by mere novelty, 
and seemed to have little sense of comparison, while the other 
strove to appraise the relative value of the* different objects 
brought to his notice with reference to their use and advantage. 

In after-days Edith used’to liken King Taril to Peter the Great, 
whom, save in stature, he indeed greatly resembled. He had the 
good of his people and their advancement in knowledge always 
at heart, and preferred it, as was subsequently amply proved, even 
to the ties of blood and the gratification of a domestic affection 
which could hardly be surpassed. Masiric was a wit and a mimic, 
and never suffered his high position to hamper his love of droll- 
ery; Avhereas the king possessed a certain dignity which never 
deserted him. and even under the most trying circumstances pre- 
served him from ridicule. 

Even as matters were, and on so short an acquaintance, the cap- 
tain was disposed to think well of him, but the news from the 
lookout was too serious to be ignored, and before admitting the 
visitors to the camp he demanded an explanation of it. When 
the question was put, through the Malay, the king drew himself 


142 


A TKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


up with an offended air, and the color rushed into his face. Ilis 
son whispered hastil}’ into his ear, and pointed to Conolly, where- 
upon his Majesty inclined his head in haughty assent. Then the 
midshipman, after a few words with Tarilam, addressed the captain. 

“The king, sir, I am bidden to say, harbors no thoughts of 
treachery. He is at war with his neighbors, and therefore has 
been compelled to put to sea with an escort sufficient to repel any 
attack that might be made on him, but coming hither with all the 
sentiments of friendship, he thought it indelicate to alarm your 
people by the exhibition of such a formidable fleet. They are at 
the back of the island, it is true, but they are not near enough to 
save his Majesty from violence, a contingency which never so 
much as entered his mind, and he regrets that any similar suspi- 
cion should, nevertheless, have occurred to you.” These words, 
so uncharacteristic of Master Lewis Conolly, were delivered with 
a deliberation which, though caused by the difficulty of transla- 
tion, gave them a certain dignity. 

It was now the captain’s turn to speechify, a feat in which it 
must be confessed he was less successful than his royal visitor. 

“ Well, upon my soul, it was most uncommonly considerate and 
deuced gentlemanly of the old gentleman,” he exclaimed, with 
enthusiasm, “ and you may tell him so for me.” 

This eulogium, rendered, let us hope, less literally than the 
speech of the prince had been, was received by the monarch with 
great satisfaction. 

“Never,” he said, “has the sweet voice of Deltis sounded 
more grateful to my ears.” The captain bowed respectfully, and 
in an aside with the midshipman inquired what on earth was 
meant by that? Then Master Conolly, with purple countenance, 
arising from a pressing tendency to mirth, reminded him that on 
account of his singing he had been likened to the bird called del- 
tis, the only one of the feathered tribe in Breda who could favor 
its inhabitants with a song. 

“But you do not sing in the Bredan language, my young 
shaver, so how is it that these good folks understand you?” 

Then the boy modestly explained that Prince Tarilam had taken 
a fancy to him on his first arrival on the island, and ever since 
had passed several hours daily in his company, acquiring from 
him, with the help of the interpreter, the English tongue, for 
which he had shown a remarkable adaptability, while in so doing 
he had of necessity imparted something of his own. 

“But is this prince of yours and his father to be thoroughly 
trusted, think you?” inquired the captain, doubtfully— “ for my 
experience as yet has been that the cleverer the savage the greater 
the rogue.” 

“There is not a more truthful or kinder-hearted man in Eng- 
land than Prince Tarilam, sir,” answered the midshipman, warmly, 
“and he tells me that all the good in him he owes to the teaching 
of the king.” 


ROYALTIES. 


143 


“ Well, well, I hope it may be so; at all events we must chance 
it,” was the captain’s conclusion; whereupon he formally invited 
the visitors to enter the camp. 

Then Master Lewis Conolly, calling to mind that there were 
already two interpreters, and having something on his own ac- 
count to say to somebody else, slipped away from the cortege and 
ran up to where Edith and Aunt Sophia were standing on a rock 
a little removed from the rest, but whence they had a good view 
of the whole proceedings. He was received by both with an 
excess of welcome, which, had he been two years older, would 
certainly not have been accorded to him. He was just at that 
happy epoch when “ nobody but yourself knows how old you are,” 
and thoroughly enjoyed the privilege of his position. Aunt So- 
phia called him indifferently “ Mr, Conolly ” and “my dear boy,” 
just as the matter on which they were speaking chanced to be 
familiar or otherwise. Edith, by way of compromise, addressed 
him as Lewis; but the young rascal was well aware that he was 
as great a favorite with one as the other. 

Aunt Sophia would have had him at once recount his advent- 
ures, but this juvenile Ulysses was much too wary to run the 
risk of wasting their effect at such a juncture. He confined him- 
self to speaking of the exalted individuals who were then shar- 
ing attention with him. and might at any moment monopolize 
it. He pointed out to them the axes which hung from the shoul- 
ders of the king and his son, and which were the ensigns of their 
royal race. The handles were of ebony and the blades of shells. 
Around the wrist of the former was also a bracelet of polished 
bone, which, though of the simplest material and construction, 
implied in its wearer the possession of the greatest honor as well 
as of the highest rank — a combination of the Victoria Cross and 
the Garter. It was worn also by Prince Masiric as commander- 
in-chief. 

“But I hope that beautiful Prince Tarilam has got the bone,” 
observed Aunt Sophia. 

“He has one, but he is too modest to wear it,” returned the 
midshipman. “His view is that it is the reward of merit, and 
that there is no merit, but only a fortunate accident, in being a 
king’s son.” 

“That is a very noble motive for a savage,” remarked Edith, 
in astonishment. 

“A savage! He is no more a savage than — well — Ij’eally 
know no one who would not suffer by comparison with him,” 
cried the boy, with eager enthusiasm, “See, they are about to 
show them what a musket can do. In spite of all I could say, 
the Malay would explain the use of the bullet they picked up, 
and since then they have been wild to hear the ‘ white man’s 
thunder,’ as they call it.” 

The visitors were now assembled, in great expectancy, round 
the captain and Mr. Marston, the latter of whom had a musket 


144 


A rPJNCE OF THE BLOOD. 


in his hand. lie was the best shot in the sliip’s company,* and 
had therefore been intrusted with the task of impressing upon 
their new friends the etlicacy of tire-arms. The thunder could 
be made sure of, of course, but it was essential to demonstrate 
the effects of the lightning. There was no lack of birds to aim 
at, albeit they were not of a kind known to European sports- 
men; though songless, they were of the most beautiful and gor- 
geous colors — the men called them flying rainbows — and slid 
rather than flew through the warm and lustrous air. It seemed 
“a sin and a shame,” as Aunt Sophia said, to kill one, and all 
the more so since, never having been molested by man, and not 
understanding his inventions, especially gunpowder, they made 
no great haste to get out of his reach. It would have made an 
habitue of Wimbledon smile to see the care with which the first 
mate handled his piece, watched his chance, and then took aim 
at a bird as bright and big as a peacock that was leisurely pass- 
ing over their heads; it was very like a literal rendering of the 
metaphor, “a barn door flying,” and a barn door made more de- 
monstrative by brilliant advertisements; but at all events he hit 
it, and down it came. 

The flash of fire, the noise, and then the fall of the bird created 
three distinct sensations in the visitors. Some stopped their ears, 
some shut their eyes (the better, like ]\Ir. Justice Stareleigh, to 
exercise their judgment), and even the king suffered himself to 
be betrayed into an exclamation of astonishment. As for the 
emotional Masiric, prince and commander-in-chief though he 
was, he ran after the bird like a retriever, and picking it up, ex- 
amined it with the most minute attention. How the creature 
could have been killed without the flame from the gun reaching 
him, which it clearly had not done, taxed his reason beyond his 
powers to explain. 

Prince Tarilam turned his shapely head towards the rock on 
wdiich Conolly was standing and smiled. “ You have not the 
least exaggerated matters,” the smiler seemed to say, “but I 
sbould like to have one or two things elucidated respecting this 
amazing incident.” The midshipman was at his side in a mo- 
ment; but while the other lent his ear apparently to scientific in- 
formation, his gaze was fixed upon the spot which his companion 
had just left. Presently Conolly also turned his eyes in the 
same direction, as a man always does, sooner or later, if the ob- 
ject of his discourse is visible. 

“I do believe the prince has been asking questions about us, 
and not about the musket at all,” ejaculated Aunt Sophia. 

* Sailors are seldom good shots. This is the reason why the ex- 
ploring expeditions sent to the North Seas have sulfered so much pri- 
vation, and is in a great measure the cause of their ill-success. There 
is a sufficiency of game, if only one could bring it down, which Dr. 
Rac, with his company of “ trappers ” — Hudson’s Bay men — never 
failed to do. 


ROYALTIES. 


145 


“Perhaps he wants to know whether it will kill people as 
well as birds, ” said Edith, dryly. 

“Oh, how wicked! oh, how can you!” exclaimed her compan- 
ion; “lam sure the prince would not hurt a tly. Moreover, it 
can’t be that, because Mr. Conolly is shaking his head, and very 
decidedly too.” 

“That may corroborate my view,” persisted Edith; “he is 
teaching him the rudiments of the sixth commandment.” 

After a great deal of gesture and interpretation, during which 
the king maintained an air of extreme gravity and reflection, 
w'hile Prince Masiric exhibited his powers of imitation of a mus- 
ket-shot — just as a child presents a walking-stick, and cries, 
“ Pop, bang, fire!” — the visitors began to prepare for departure. 
The captain and the officers held their hands out, when, much to 
their astonishment and a little to their alarm, they were treated 
to quite another form of salutation. Each of the visitors seized 
his neighbor by the shoulder, the king holding the captain as in 
a vise, the prince seizing the midshipman, and Masiric clutching 
Mr. Marston with such hearty good-will that he left his mark 
on him for an hour afterwards; every host, in fact, was similarly 
collared by his guest. 

“It is an expression of personal friendship,” explained Conol- 
ly, hastily, for it was plain that the demonstration was not being 
accepted in the spirit in which it was offered — “the tighter they 
grasp you, the higher is the estimation they have formed of your 
character.” 

“His Majesty must think me an angel, then,” murmured the 
captain, rubbing his arms. He smiled, however, with much com- 
placency, as did all the rest, as in duty bound. It was, moreover, 
a relief to them to find that this tenacious treatment, which sug- 
gested perpetual imprisonment, had, after all, a friendly aim. 

Then, amid blowing of couch-shells and splashing of paddles, 
the king and his suite departed. At the mouth of the harbor 
they delayed a little, while at a given signal the fleet, consisting 
of more than a hundred canoes, came swiftly up from below the 
island, and took their station behind the royal barge, when the 
whole cortege left for home. It was a splendid sight, and a meth- 
od of royal conveyance at least as imposing as the gilt carriage 
and eight cream -colored horses used on state occasions in our 
own country. 

The two ladies would certainly not have grudged it their admi- 
ration but for a circumstance which at the moment drew'their 
attention to another quarter. 

“ See, Mr. Conolly has not gone,” cried Edith, eagerly, who, in 
the confusion and crowd upon the beach, had not hitherto recog- 
nized the fact that the midshipman had been left behind. “ How 
glad I am they have not taken him back with them. Though he 
JuiH such a belief in their good-will, I much prefer to see him 
left with us.” 

10 


146 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“They have left other persons behind them too,” exclaimed 
Aunt Sophia, excitedly; “yes, they certainly have; the prince 
himself, with two of his people, no doubt as hostages, and to 
show that their intentions are honorable. Now, I call that very 
nice of them. The idea of having such a Prince Charming for 
our guest is delightful. And, only look, I protest that that dear 
boy, who knows how I dote on royalty, is bringing him to talk 
with us. My dear Edith, I feel all in a flutter.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

MASTER CONOLLY’s NARRATIVE. 

As the midshipman and the young prince of Breda approached 
the ladies, they could not help observing the contrast between 
them, which indeed, considering that they were both favorable 
types, was as great as contrast could be. The one was a hand- 
some English boy, fresh-colored and blue-eyed, with a roguish 
drollery in his face that even the presence of authority could 
only mitigate, and which the nature of the undertaking he had 
now on hand intensified to an unusual degree. The prince, on 
the other hand, whose comeliness was of quite another kind, and 
whose grace of form suggested some faultless statue, wore an 
expression of sedateness altogether alien to his years. With this, 
however, was mingled no touch of austerity; indeed, it was the 
tenderness of his looks, joined to a certain worshipful awe as he 
drew near the young lady, which was trying Master Lewis Con- 
olly’s gravity to the utmost. 

“The Prince Tarilam wishes to have the honor of 5^our ac- 
quaintance, ladies,” he observed, sedately. The ladies bowed 
and held out their hands, which, to their astonishment, he raised 
respectfully to his lips. No courtier could have surpassed the 
grace and ease of it, only he saluted the younger lady first, and 
perhaps retained her hand a second or two longer. 

“Welcome,” he said, “ to Faybur, and may you be happy with 
us.” The speech, though so brief, was evidently rehearsed be- 
forehand, and he looked at the midshipman when he had uttered 
it with the simplicity of a child who seeks approval from his 
teacher. 

“Quite right,” exclaimed Conolly, encouragingly. Then, in 
lower and more rapid tones, he added, “I was priming his royal 
highness with a lot of pretty speeches as we came along in the 
canoe, and that is the one he selected. He is so jolly green that I 
had not the heart to keep up the illusion that 5’^ou were the god- 
dess of flowers; but he wishes me to remark that you certainly 
are a flower. Miss Edith, for all that, and the very fairest he has 
ever set eyes on.” 

Edith blushed and smiled, and deprccatingly shook her head, 


MASTER COXOLLY’s NARRATIVE. 


147 


“It is no use denying it like that,” observed the midshipman, 
gravely, after a brief conference with his companion; “his royal 
highness says he only made a mistake in the kind of flower; at 
first he was under the impression that you were a rose, but he 
perceives now by the movement of your head that you are a lily 
of the valley.” 

“ You bold, bad boy,” cried Aunt Sophia, “ I am quite sure the 
prince has been saying nothing of the kind.” 

At which Edith smiled outright, the midshipman burst into 
uproarious laughter, and Tarilam laughed so musically that it 
seemed astonishing that so gentle a sound could proceed from 
such a formidable frame. There was no sense of fun in it, of 
course, yet it was perfectly natural and genuine, for it arose from 
sympathy, just as the countenance of any kindly disposed person 
reflects the spectacle of happiness in others. 

“The prince is to be the captain’s guest here for some time, 
and will share his quarters,” continued Conolly; “as his host will 
be occupied with his duties, his royal highness hopes that he may 
be permitted to call occasionally in Ladies’ Bay, and cultivate 
your acquaintance. He would like some of your leisure time to 
be spent in teaching him reading, writing, arithmetic, and the use 
of the globes.” 

“Mr. Conolly,” said Edith, severely, “it is neither good taste 
nor good manners to make fun of any guest, especially of one 
who from ignorance of our language is necessarily at your 
mercy.” 

“ Ten thousand pardons. Miss Edith; you don’t know what a 
beast I seem to myself, now you have held the looking-glass up 
to me,” returned the midshipman; “I will never offend again.” 
His penitence was so earnest as well as so abject that Edith could 
not but forgive him; she knew that Master Conolly’s crime went 
no further than in permitting his high spirits to run away with 
him, whereas they required a tight hand.” 

“Now, tell me truly what the prince does say,” she answered. 

“Well, I have told him that we have all duties to do here, ex- 
cept you ladies, and that I am sure, when we are not at leisure to 
look after him, you will be so good as to do so a little; and espe- 
cially that you will help him to learn English, which it is his 
great desire to master. Indeed, Iliave not exaggerated matters. 
Miss Edith, about his having the highest regard for you ; and I 
am sure ” (this is a hasty parenthesis), “ for your aunt also; and 
in spite of all his strange surroundings, you will find Prince Tar- 
ilam to be a thorough gentleman.” 

“We are quite sure of that,” said Aunt Sophia — an opinion 
evoked not less from the lad’s own evident conviction than from 
the demeanor of the prince himself. His position was an excep- 
tionally trying one, something like that of the gentleman in the 
figure “Pastoral” in the old quadrille, who had the utmost diffi- 
culty, 'while dancing ^lope opposite two ladies and another maq, 


148 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


not to look like a fool; nay, Tarilam had not even the relief of 
movement, but in stillness and silence had to endure the con- 
sciousness of being talked about by his three companions without 
understanding one word they said. Yet he never, on the one hand, 
betrayed a trace of awkwardness, nor, on the other, of a too great 
audacity, but remained the personification of unembarrassed ease. 
His expression reminded one of those admirable specimens of 
gentleness among the deaf and dumb, for whom, as they listen in 
vain, but with a smile of patient intelligence to the conversation 
of their more favored fellow-creatures, few fail to feel a touch 
of tenderness. 

For the present, his patience was put to no further test, for the 
captain here sent to say that his guest’s quarters were ready for 
his inspection, so, with a grace and courtesy seldom seen out of a 
minuet, he took his leave, 

“ That is the best bred young man that ever I saw,” was Aunt 
Sophia’s remark, as soon as he got out of ear- shot (though that 
didn’t matter much), “and I do hope we shall see a great deal of 
him,” As Edith took no notice of this asi^iration, it may at lea.st 
be supposed that she had no objection to offer to it. “ I wonder 
where he gets his clothes from?” continued Aunt Sophia, naively. 

At this both of her companions burst out laughing. “ If we 
are to teach him English, you will have an excellent opportunity 
of asking him that question, Sophy,” observed Edith. 

“But, my dear child, you mistake me; I don’t want to know 
who is his tailor, but where the material comes from and what it 
it is, which, as an attire, becomes him so admirably.” 

“I can tell you all about that, ladies,” said the midshipman, 
demurely, “ not, of course, now, but some day when you may hap- 
pen to ask me to dinner, in order to have the whole story of my 
adventures in Breda.” 

Their curiosity to learn that matter was, as the young rogue 
knew, extreme, and he received his invitation for that very day 
accordingly. It was not the first time that he had partaken of 
the hospitality of the tenants of Ladies’ Bay, whose house in- 
deed, save that of the captain, was the only one of dimensions 
sutficient for the entertainment of guests, and he not only es- 
teemed the honor very highly, but thoroughly appreciated the 
superiority of the food he got there over that of the midship- 
man’s mess. The freshest fish that could be caught, the daintiest 
bird that could be snared, was always reserved for the ladies’ 
table. 

It was therefore with the sense of having well dined, and of 
being made much of, and of having deserved it, that the young 
gentleman proceeded that afternoon to narrate his story to his 
hostesses, or rather — for he was somewhat in the position of Can- 
ning’s knife-grinder as to “story” — to allow what he had to tell 
to bo elicited from him by the gentle pressure of inquiry. 

“In the very first place,” observed Aunt Sophia, “ we are wild 


MASTER CONOLLy’s NARRATIVE. 


149 


to know what tlie prince was saying about us before you intro- 
duced him to us, and what was the proposition at which you 
shook your head so positively?” 

“It is the Amrac custom, Miss JSTorbury, for every one to 
choose for himself a personal friend, a ceremony which you saw 
take place on the beach just now; and he who is chosen becomes 
as a brother, to be loved, cherished, and protected by the other to 
his life’s end; and this honor the Prince Tarilam proposed to 
himself to confer upon you." 

“Upon meV' exclaimed Aunt Sophia. “ Why, goodness gra- 
cious, this is the first time the man has ever set eyes upon me!” 

“ Once is surely quite enough, madam,” returned the midship- 
man, demurely, “ for any man to be impressed with your merits, 
only as this ceremony involved some physical pain, and was also 
liable to misconstruction, 1 persuaded him to perform it by 
proxy.” 

“ Then who is to take care of my niece?” inquired Aunt So- 
phia, with a severity she found it difficult to assume, for the com- 
pliment that had been paid her was not displeasing. 

“Miss Edith, madam, has been bespoken as a sister by Majuba.” 

“ And who on earth is Majuba?” 

“To be sure — that is because you would not let me begin at 
the beginning. Majuba is tlie only daughter of King Taril, a 
most lovely young woman, and as good, I do assure you, as she 
is beautiful.” 

“You seem to have a very great insight into character, young 
gentleman,” said Aunt Sophia. “May I ask if you stood proxy 
for Edith as you did for me, and were pinched by this excellent 
young person in the shoulder?” 

“ She did just nip me with her finger and thumb,” stammered 
the young gentleman; “it was like being vaccinated, only it 
seemed shorter. ” 

“1 am afraid it was contagion, however, that you received from 
it, and not protection,” observed Aunt Sophia, with uplifted fin- 
ger. “Mr. Redmayne was certainly wrong, Edie, when he told 
us that no midshipman had been ever seen to blush.” 

“Mr. Redmayne has made up for it since he became a mate 
by blushing whenever a lady speaks to him,” returned Master 
Conolly, contemptuous!}'’. 

“ And how old is this Princess Majuba?” inquired Edith, smil- 
ing in spite of herself. 

“She is just four years younger than Prince Tarilam, and very 
like him,” 'replied the midshipman. “She was uncommonly in- 
terested in you both, and would have come here to-day but that 
it is contrary to etiquette for a woman to accompany the king on 
a visit of ceremony.” 

“But tell us all about everything in its proper order,” inter- 
rupted Aunt Sophia, impatiently; “do let us persuade you— if 
only temporarily — to drop Majuba.” 


150 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Master Conolly cast at Aunt Sophia a look of deep reproach— 
she had always hitherto been his best friend, and this desertion, 
and especially the rallying of him in the presence of Edith, 
wounded him to the quick — and then commenced as follows: 

“ When the canoe in which I went away approached Ararac, 
there was a great surf, so that it seemed impossible to land; but 
somehow the thing was done, and I found myself literally high 
and dry, for I was carried at once upon men’s shoulders, and in 
the midst of a great concourse of people, to the king’s house. I 
offered him the presents sent by the captain, which he accepted 
very graciously, and at once began to eat the sweet biscuits and 
the tea. On the other hand, I was regaled with something like 
toffy, only very dry and hard, on a tortoise-shell dish; the Malay 
told me it was the highest compliment that could be conferred 
upon me, so I pretended to enjoy it, while the scoundrel himself 
was eating the most excellent crawfish and dried turtle, served 
on plantain leaves. 

‘ ‘ I did my best to pretend to like it, but it was hard work, for 
I was very hungry. Eveiy one else who was eating what pleased 
him pretended to look on me with envy, nor did the king him- 
self — though he could hardly be enjoying the dried tea-leaves — 
observe that I was not worthy of so much honor; but directly 
the prince entered the room he seemed to understand the whole 
situation at a glance. He bade me, through the interpreter, put 
the precious fragments of hard bake aside as if for future use, 
and then caused me to be served with more agreeable, if more 
humble, food. 

“ It struck one at once, somehow, that here was an intelligent 
and independent-minded fellow, not in the least affected by forms 
and ceremonies. Though his manner to his father was full of 
respect and duty, it seemed to me that the king looked up to him 
as to a superior mind. At all events, he did what he liked with 
his Majesty as with everybody else. After the meal was over, 
he took me into an adjoining room, and introduced me to his 
sister, the princess.” 

“ How was she dressed?” inquired Aunt Sophia. 

“In white raiment, like an angel. Her attire was, in fact, of 
the same material as that you saw worn by the prince, only much 
fuller and longer ; it is made of tappa, a substance beaten out 
of the bark of a sort of mulberry-tree. Every one wears it, and 
it is always spotless; but washing is extremely cheap in Breda. 
The interpreters were not admitted to the princess’s presence; so, 
though she and her brother talked together of course, all my in- 
tercourse with her was by signs. Yet, you have no idea how 
well we get on together.” 

“Indeed we have a very good idea,” said Edith, laughing. 

“ It is all very well to laugh,” continued the midshipman, pre- 
tending not to understand her, “but though I felt quite safe in 
the company of these two charming persons, I had no such con- 


MASTER CONOLLY’s NARRATIVE CONTINUED. 151 


ficlence in the people at large, and I especially mistrusted the 
Malay." 

“We have not yet done with your princess," observed Aunt 
Sophia, severely; “your interview seems to have been very short. 
Did nothing else occur than what you have told us?" 

“There was a little dance which I forgot to mention,” said Mas- 
ter Conolly, with simplicity. 

“Oh, indeed, you danced with this young woman, did you?” 

“With the princess? Certainly not, madam. But, by way 
of entertaining me, as I suppose, a number of young ladies, her 
handmaidens, were summoned, and executed what you might call 
a ballet." 

“But what might you call it, sir," inquired Aunt Sophia. 
“ Was it a ballet?” 

“ I rather think it was," confessed the youth, demurely. “ They 
were all dressed in flowers, and very pretty." 

“Very pretty!” repeated Aunt Sophia, not like an echo, but 
severely. 

“I mean the flowers were very pretty,” explained the young 
gentleman. “ But I was very tired and sleepy, and hardly looked 
at anything." 

“He means he had no eyes for any one else but the- Princess 
Majuba,” observed Edith, smiling. 

“I don’t know what he means,” said Aunt Sophia; “I only 
know he ought never to have gone to Amrac without somebody 
to take care of him. Do you mean to say, sir, that you were not 
asked to sing?" 

“Oh yes, I had forgotten that. The princess — I mean the 
prince — kept saying ‘deltis, deltis,’ and so I did sing her a song." 

“ ‘ Rule Britannia,’ I dare say,” said Aunt Sophia, scornfully; 
“ nothing of a sentimental character, of course." 

“Oh no, I sang her a horticultural song, ‘The Last Rose of 
Summer,’ I think it was.” 

“He has already acquired all the duplicity of the savage,” 
observed Aunt Sophia, lifting up her hands. “ Well,yc» on, sir.” 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

MASTER CONOLLY’s NARRATIVE CONTINUED. 

“Presently I began to yawn, so that the prince burst out 
laughing, and gave me in charge to one of his male attendants, 
who showed me where I was to sleep. This was a large room in 
another house, with a couple of fires in it, for the nights in Amrac 
are much colder than in Breda. They gave me a mat to lie upon, 
and another to draw over me, and a block of wood for a pillow. 
I should have slept soundly enough on it, but for the strangeness 
of the place, and for the being away from everybody I knew.” 


152 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“Poor fellow!” exclaimed the two ladies, simultaneously; for 
under the mask of raillery and pretended severity Aunt Sophia 
felt at least as tenderly for the boy as Edith. 

“ Then, in the middle of the night, eight men came in and 
made up the fires, preparatory, as I thought, to roasting me at 
one of them, but it was only, as it turned out, an excess of civility 
and attention, and soon after daybreak they brought me yams 
and cocoa-nuts and some turtle-soup for breakfast, which I par- 
took of in the presence of about five hundred men and women, 
all sitting round me in perfect silence, and waiting, as the inter- 
preter presently told me, for a song. 

“The people at large seemed to care for nothing but singing 
and flowers, and though very kind and pleasant, could not un- 
derstand that one could not sing forever, even on turtle-soup. I 
was so tired and weary that when the king came down and 
wanted more singing, I had hardly strength to comply with his 
request, but made signs that I wanted to return to Faybur to re- 
cover my voice. Whereupon he pointed up to the trees, and 
blew strongly with his mouth; and, to indicate what would hap- 
pen in such weather if the canoes should venture out, he joined 
his hands together, with the palms upward, and turning them 
the reverse way, signified that they would overset. Then he said 
‘Deltis,’ indicating how I should employ the time for a month 
or two till the fair weather set in, and 1, on my part, resolutely 
shut my mouth and shook my head. 

“Then the prince came, full of intelligence and consideration, 
and smiles that seemed to take disappointment away from every- 
body, and took me by the hand to his own house. 

“There I found the two interpreters, our own and the Malay, 
from the latter of whom the prince had already learned a few 
words of English, and we set to work to make ourselves intelligible 
to one another. Never did I see so quick a scholar. In less than 
a week he knew at least three times as much of my language as 
I did of his, and long before I came away we dispensed with the 
interpreter altogether. The king, on the other hand, was rather 
a dunce at it; he said he was too old a dog to learn new tricks.” 

“ My dear Mr. Conolly, he surely never said that,” expostulated 
Edith. 

“ No, no, it was what he would have said, I mean, if he could 
have said anything; but the prince and I got on famously.” 

“And Majuba?” demanded Aunt Sophia, inexorably; “ was she 
not also a pupil?” 

“ To be sure, I had forgotten that; when I said that the prince 
was the quickest scholar I had ever seen, I should have said the 
quickest male scholar; the princess beat him into fits.” 

“What imagery!” murmured Aunt Sophia. “How true it is 
that poetry is the natural language of love! And when you had 
taught this peerless young person to talk, may I ask what it was 
you talked about?” 


MASTER COKOLLy’s NARRATIVE CONTINUED. 153 


“I think yon are rather hard upon our young friend, Sophy,” 
remonstrated Edith. “Remember, Mr. Conolly, that you are not 
obliged to criminate yourself, if you find any difficulty in reply- 
ing to that question.” 

“ I find none at all,” retorted the young gentleman, audacious- 
ly; “I talked to the princess about you. She was immensely in- 
terested, and I told her eveiything.” 

“About meV' exclaimed Edith; her tone was not only one of 
surprise, but of annoyance. 

“All about both of you,” he answered, hurriedly — “how you 
had embarked on board ship for India, and were shipwrecked, 
and were now in Breda all alone.” 

“Oh, I see,” cried Edith, with an air of ill -concealed relief; 
“and she was kind and sympathizing, was she?” 

“She was, indeed; she would have come to you at once, as I 
have said, if etiquette had permitted it.” 

“You do not seem to have been much inconvenienced by eti- 
quette yourself,” observed Aunt Sophia, dryly. 

“ Was I not? Wait till the king delights to honor you, madam 
(as I am sure he will), and gives you hard -bake,” replied the 
youth, innocently. “As for the princess, she will be here — 
weather permitting — to-morrow or the next day.” 

“Faybur has, doubtless, new attractions for her, which it had 
not before,” remarked Aunt Sophia, viciously. 

“Yes, madam,” was the demure rejoinder, “she cannot bear 
being separated from her only brother.” 

“You have said that you mistrusted the Malay,” observed 
Edith, after a pause. “ Why was that?” 

“ Well, I can hardly say; it is, perhaps, only a case of ‘I do 
not like thee. Dr. Fell,’ but still I found out one thing from our 
own interpreter during my first day at Breda, that it was not on 
that island, as he told us, on which the Malay had been ship- 
wrecked, but on Amrac, and that the people there did not kill 
him, but suffered him to escape to Breda, is suspicious, as show- 
ing a fellow feeling with the refugee.” 

“ The Amrac folks are very wicked, I suppose, then?” 

“A pack of murderers; nothing less.” 

“ What a partisan our young friend has become,” observed 
Aunt Sophia. “I dare say, if the truth were known, there are 
princes and princesses in Amrac quite as respectable, to siiy the 
least of it, as in Breda.” 

Master Conolly shook his head, and in tones much more serious 
than he had hitherto used, assured his companions that this was 
not the case. “From Amrac,” he said, “there is everything to 
fear— a nation delighting in bloodshed, and because no treaty can 
bind them, always at war with their neighbors.” 

“And tliey might come over here some fine day,” observed 
Aunt Sophia, apprehensively. 

“ Well, any fine day— for they arc not such good sailors as the 


154 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


Breda folks. Yes. There is no fear, however, but that we shall 
be able to give a good account of them,” said the midshipman, 
drawing himself up to his full five feet. 

Here a messenger came from the captain to summon Mr. 
Conolly to relieve him from his duties for an hour or two in the 
entertainment of the prince, whereupon he vanished at once. _ 

“Poor Captain Head finds conversation with his royal high- 
ness a little difficult, no doubt,” observed Aunt Sophia. 

“I should hardly think that, after Mr. Conolly’s account of his 
proficiency in English; he must have understood us, I fancy, a 
great deal better than we thought he did.” 

“Gracious goodness! Do you really think so, Edith? What 
a horrible notion! What was that he said about his clothes?” 

“ You mean what was that you said?” returned Edith, laughing. 

“Dear, dear! it makes one quite hot to think of it! What a 
mischievous monkey that boy is!” 

The afternoon, though fine as usual, was somewhat oppressive, 
and when it was so it was the custom of the ladies to bathe in a 
sheltered cove at the extremity of the little bay. It was a reflec- 
tion they had often made that though their whole wardrobe had 
been safely landed, the articles which they had heretofore been 
Accustomed to set most store by, such as their dinner and ball 
dresses, were now utterly useless, while their more homely gar- 
ments were become of great value; of these none were more use- 
ful than their bathing gear, which enabled them to take a bath 
of the most enjoyable kind whenever they felt inclined for it. 
Edith was a tolerable proficient in natation, and under the new 
conditions of the sea and air and beach enjoyed it as she had 
never done before, while her aunt watched her with envy from 
the shallows. Besides the five senses, there are various channels 
for the influx of human happiness, not so common to all, but 
which, nevertheless, many foolishly despise or ignore who have 
it in their power to use them. One of these is the art of swim- 
ming, the neglect of which in an age of so-called “culture” and 
education, and one which prides itself on squeezing all that is 
pleasant out of life to the last drop, both for man and woman, is 
inexplicably neglected by the latter. At the date of our story 
this was of course still more the case. It had been her father’s 
custom, however — itself a rare one at the time — to spend at least 
a month every year by the sea side, and there Edith bad acquired 
this accomplishment. Enjoyable as she had found it at Ramsgate 
and Dover, it was ten times more so at Breda, where the buoyancy 
of the sea, the purity of the air, the brilliancy of the sky, and the 
exquisite beauty of the surrounding scenery, joined to that for- 
getfulness of trouble produced by the exercise itself, made her in 
truth more happy when in the water than she ever felt out of it. 

Aunt Sophia splashed about well within her depth, with a 
much inferior sense of pleasure, and with a certain groundless 
apprehension on her niece’s account, such as a hen might feel 


MASTER CONOLLy’s NARRATIVE CONTINUED. 155 


who lias hatched a duckling. She was constantly entreating her 
niece not to swim so far out, as though increased depth meant in- 
creased danger, and I am afraid that Edith took some malicious 
pleasure— as experts will do under such circumstances— in arous- 
ing her fears. On the present occasion she was disporting herself 
as usual some distance from the shore when a cry from Aunt 
Sophia reached her. She laughingly replied that she was all right, 
and to prove it took another stroke or two out to sea. Then the 
cry was repeated, and this time it struck her that there was some- 
thing unusual in it. It was not the warning note of apprehen- 
sion, but the shrill treble of agonized alarm. She looked back, 
and beheld her companion standing on the shore, and pointing 
with a vehemence that also somehow signified despair to some 
object between herself and the swimmer. 

Edith’s eyes, following the direction of her gaze, saw some- 
thing twinkle in the water and then disappear. She knew at 
once what it was, for on board ship she had seen it many times, 
and never, though herself in perfect safety, without a shudder 
of fear; it was the brown fin of a shark. Fear seized her soul, 
and for a moment so paralyzed her limbs that she was in immi- 
nent danger of sinking. If she could have sunk and been drowned 
before the creature came up with her, she felt that it would have 
been well indeed. It was not so long ago that she had felt that 
death in any form would have been welcome to her ; but that 
hopeless mood had of late been passing away, and at no time, in- 
deed, could she have confronted such a form of death as this with- 
out horror and aversion. The most miserable among us, who 
yearns to be “anywhere, anywhere, out of the world,” would 
shrink from such a gate of exit. Not even unconsciousness, 
wdiicli generally mitigates a shock of horror so intense and sud- 
den, stepped in to her relief. The vitality that for an instant 
had deserted her frame returned to it, and with it an only too 
accurate understanding of her helpless position. The shark was 
between her and the shore. No boat could possibly reach her as 
soon as it, and indeed no man, if man could be found to run for 
her sake upon certain death. The sentry on the rampart had 
indeed, as usual, been withdrawn upon the ladies expressing their 
intention of bathing, and no one apparently was in ear-shot of her 
aunt’s passionate cries for help. All this she took in at a glance, 
as it were mechanically, but her whole power of thought was 
concentrated on her unseen enemy. We are told that when sud- 
den death lays hold upon us— as when, for example, those lose 
consciousness who are about to drown — that a vision of our past 
sweeps through the mind, and we seem to live our life again at 
the very moment of quitting it; but this was not the case with 
Edith Norbury. Her eyes as she swam desperately shoreward 
were fixed with agonized intentness on the sea, and her soul was 
monopolized by the thought of the hateful creature that was ly- 
ing in wait therein to rend her. When she should see that brown 


156 


A OF THE BLOOD. 


fin rise again, it would be the sign she knew, that death in its 
most appalling form was close upon her. 

At present it was probable that the shark was not aware of her 
proximity ; he had, indeed, been swimming close in shore, and 
had snapped at that not unconscious trifle Aunt Sophia just as 
she ran out of his reach; but it was to the last degree unlikely 
that having found bathers about, he would not be looking for 
more. Still there was hope, without which she could not have 
swum a stroke — that he might have gone elsewhere. 

Edith was positively not fifty yards from the sandy beach, and 
was straining every nerve to reach it, when something close be- 
side her rose out of the water, and sideways, with a gleaming 
flash, made at her ; then she uttered one despairing shriek and 
knew no more. 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 

THE SHARK. 

Prince Tarilam had been right royally received by Captain 
Head ; entertained with the choicest pickled meats and other 
European delicacies, including champagne — which he had de- 
clined to swallow in an effervescing state, upon the ground that 
living things were neither drunk nor eaten in Breda — and wel- 
comed as hospitably as guest could be ; but conversation had 
flagged between his host and him. He could not use his newly 
acquired tongue with others with the same freedom as with Cou- 
olly, who understood his peculiar difficulties with it, and could 
help him out of them. He was diffident too, as some of us, though 
not naturally shy, are apt to be when talking to a Frenchman who 
is not our tutor; and everything was so new and strange that the 
attention which it was so necessary to pay to his companion’s 
speech was constantly being diverted elsewhere. So when he had 
delivered certain messages from the king, full of amity and con- 
cord, and these had been reciprocated, both parties felt their con- 
versational powers on the wane. 

“I can’t be talking to this blessed prince all day about the 
greatness and goodness of his father,” was the captain's impa- 
tient reflection, “so I’ll get young Conolly to take him off my 
hands.” 

At the mention of the midshipman the prince brightened up 
at once, as the face of the after-dinner guest is gladdened by the 
offer of an unexpected cigar, and the proposal that his young 
friend should take him round the camp was accepted with pleas- 
ure. Except that the summons withdrew him from the society 
of the ladies, the midshipman was equally pleased to be his 
cicerone. 

There are few things more pleasant than to introduce a person 
for whom one has a liking to objects of interest, which, though 


THE SHARK. 


157 


familiar to ourselves, are unknown to them; it is something like 
the sensation of telling an excellent but well-known joke to a new 
audience. Everything in the prince’s eyes was novel and amaz- 
ing, down to the very grindstone on which the men’s swords were 
sharpened. The glitter of their bayonets— for he had never seen 
any polished body, or the action of light upon it— delighted him. 
A small hatchet which Conolly gave him, and which he com- 
pared with his own axe of shell, with quite a piteous sense of its 
inferiority, filled him with gratitude. His observation was cease- 
less, and so keen, and even deep, that a superficial explanation 
did not serve his turn, and it was not always easy to satisfy his 
curiosity. Like Columbus, he had discovered a new world, but, 
unlike him, one much more marvellous and in a far higher stage 
of civilization than the one with which he was familiar. 

Their walk extended beyond the camp to the outworks of La- 
dies’ Bay. “Why is there no sentinel here, as elsewhere?” in- 
quired the prince, whose quick eye noticed what was absent as 
well as what was present. Conolly explained to him that in 
order to afford greater privacy the sentry was withdrawn when 
the ladies were bathing. 

“Bathing!” he cried, in his own dialect. “Are they bathing 
there?” From his tone, which was one of alarm, Conolly gath- 
ered there was something seriously amiss, but knew not what. 
“Tetmil! tetmil!” exclaimed Tarilam, excitedly. Conolly knew 
that this was the term in Breda for a shark, and his heart sank 
within him. Before he could reply, an agonized shriek broke from 
the shore, where, a quarter of a mile away, he suddenly caught 
sight of a figure in blue serge wildly gesticulating. The next 
instant he was alone. 

Literally like an arrow from a bow, Tarilam had left his side, 
and was "flying along the sands with a speed that almost out- 
stripped the power of vision. Master Lewis Conolly was a good 
runner, and to leap from the rampart and follow his late com- 
panion was the work of a moment, but he might as well have 
matched himself against the wind. Aunt Sophia, almost out of 
her mind with terror, was conscious only of something white 
flashing by her like a gigantic gull, and plunging into the sea. 
In truth, there was need of speed beyond what lies in the thews 
and sinews of ordinary men. Edith’s shriek and perhaps some 
mechanical beating of her arm through excessive terror, had 
momentarily frightened the shark — the most cowardly of all 
predatory creatures — and caused it to miss its aim; when it 
turned to come at her again, with gleaming teeth and ravening 
maw, it found a less helpless foe. 

Almost as much at home in water as on land, and not unused 
to such combats, Tarilam awaited its rush, and at the moment of 
impact swerved aside and buried his hatchet in the creature’s 
head with a force that needed no second blow. Then, bearing 
up Edith’s inanimate form with liis left arm, and oaring himself 


158 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


with the other to the shore, he laid her at Aunt Sophia’s feet with 
the dumb delight of a retriever. 

The whole aft’air had happened within so short a space that 
Conolly only just reached the spot in time to aid in restoring the 
girl to consciousness, a task to which Miss Norbury alone would 
have been quite unequal. Pier nerves had by no means recovered 
the frightful shock to which they had been subjected, and indeed 
the spectacle of her niece’s preserver, whose white garment was 
covered with blood from his dead foe, was not of a nature to re- 
store them. Either fearing the effects of his appearance upon her, 
or by a delicate intuition recognizing that his further services 
could just then be dispensed with, the prince quietly re-entered 
the water and busied himself in removing the stains of combat 
from his apparel. 

Edith came to herself with a shudder, and looked about her 
like one who is doubtful of her own identity; the truth was she 
could not understand, with the recollection of the horrible fate 
that had seemed so certain and so imminent, how it had come 
to pass that she was still in life and unharmed. 

“That dear prince has saved you,” sobbed Aunt Sophia, re- 
plying to her wondering look. “ He has the swiftness of a deer 
and the courage of a lion; no other human being could have 
done it.” 

“That is quite true,” observed the young midshipman, sorrow- 
fully. “ I was of no use at all.” 

Edith held out her hand and smiled feebly. “ I am sure you 
did what you could,” she murmured. 

“ Oh yes, I ran like a snail,” he answered, sorrowfully; “ now, 
perhaps, you will believe what 1 told you ladies of Prince Tarilam. 
There are very few princes at home, I fancy, who would run like 
that to meet a shark in his native element.” 

It might have been rejoined with some reason that such feats 
were out of the line of European princes, but neither lady was in 
the humor to throw cold water on the boy’s enthusiasrn, nor to 
detract, however indirectly, from the merits of his hero. 

“ Tell me how it all happened,” cried Edith, her eyes wander- 
ing gratefully to her unconscious preserver. 

Master (lonolly obeyed, describing with no little dramatic force, 
because with perfect natural ness, what had taken place; then per- 
ceiving that Edith was greatly moved, and apparently distressed 
by the narrative, he added, with an attempt at jocularity, “I do 
hope that in future you ladies will be more careful where you 
bathe.” 

“Bathe!” cried Aunt Sophia, vehemently, “I doubt whether 
I shall ever dare again even to wash. The creature came up to 
within a foot of me, my dear Edie, before it went off to you.” 
Edith shuddered again, then murmured with emotion, 

“ ITow can I ever tell him what I owe him?” 

♦‘It is unnecessary,” observed the midshipman, confidently, 


THE SIIAEK, 


359 


“One look of thanks, if I know him, will tell him all you feel. 
He thinks much less of what he has clone, believe me, than we 
think of it. What is distjessing him just now, on the other hand, 
is a matter that you will only smile at. Though the people of 
Breda are almost amphibious, they dislike, above all things, get- 
ting wet. A shower of rain, which fortunately seldom occurs, 
will keep the whole nation within-doors, and the prince, I will 
wager, was much less concerned about the shark than about get- 
ting his clothes wet in killing him.” 

As Coiiolly completed his explanation, Tarilam, his attire dried 
in the soft air and sunshine, and freed from the stains of combat, 
came up with a quiet smile of congratulation. 

“ I hope miss is not much worse,” he said— a sentence which it 
is probable was not altogether extempore; indeed, he had been 
repeating it to himself for some time by the sea-shore, like De- 
mosthenes, before he ventured upon its deliverance in public. 

“ I should have been dead but for your timely aid,” said Edith, 
holding out her hand, which Tarilam took with great respect, and 
bowed over like a bronze Chesterfield. “I shall never forget that 
I owe you my life, prince.” 

“I did nothing,” said Tarilam, with a disclaiming wave of the 
hand. “ Thanks to my friend here ” — he touched the boy lightly 
on the shoulder — “who gave me this hatchet, it was very small 
work; if Deltis” (a word he pronounced with extraordinary 
sweetness) “could have run as fast he would have done as well.” 

He spoke slowly and with difficulty, but in the gentlest tone; it 
was evident, by the expression of his face, that he wished the 
young fellow to share whatever honor was to be derived from the 
late proceedings. 

“That is a very big ‘ if,’ ” observed the midshipman. “ I don’t 
know what I should have done, even had I come up in time and 
been in your place. I am afraid the shark would have eaten both 
me and the young lady.” 

Edith shuddered. The prince perceived it, and at once assumed 
a tone of indifference. “ In Breda we think nothing of tetmils,” 
he said; “ there are one, two, three— a thousand of them every- 
where.” 

“That only makes it worse,” observed Aunt Sophia. 

“What he means,” explained Conolly, slyly, “is that your 
first shark always makes an impression, sometimes a very serious 
one.” 

“ I cannot laugh with you, Mr. Conolly,” said Edith; “ I have 
been too near and too lately at death’s door.” 

“And such a door!” remarked Aunt Sophia, naively. 

The prince looked interrogatively from one to the other. 

It is only the alien who notes how much even the most ordi- 
nary conversation teems with metaphor. 

The helplessness of this magnificent creature in the toils of 
ismall talk moved the pity of both the ladies, and helped him to 


160 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


find a way to their hearts almost as much as his heroism. What 
also struck them very favorably was that the curiosity which con- 
sumed his fellow-countrymen seemed to be absent in his case, at 
all events as regarded themselves. He took everything belonging 
to them as a matter of course, even their bathing-dresses. In this 
last matter it is probable that they did him more than justice, 
since, to Prince Tarilam’s eyes, whatever they wore must have 
appeared an excess of apparel ; but the fact was, that while ob- 
servant enough of externals, he attached little of that importance 
to them which, while among ourselves it is the indication of a 
weak nature, is everywhere the characteristic of an uncivilized 
race. 

“Don’t you think, Edith,” whispered Aunt Sophia, after a 
pause that would have been embarrassing to almost any stranger, 
but which the visitor endured with all the sang-froid and twice 
the grace of a royal equerry, “don’t you think we ought to ask 
him to tea?” 

The notion of meeting the occasion in such a very conventional 
way drew a smile to the girl’s face, which was immediately re- 
flected in that of Tarilam. 

“I shall have much pleasure to come,” he said, with gentle 
earnestness. 

“Now, how could he possibly have heard me?” exclaimed 
Aunt Sophia, wonderingly. “Did you hear me, Mr. Conolly?” 

“No!” replied the midshipman, laughing," but Prince Tarilam 
can hear the grass grow and the buds blossom; if you wish to say 
anything you don’t want him to hear, I warn you that you had 
better write it down; then you will be safe.” 

The prince smiled sadlj'-, threw out his hands with childish 
pathos, and shook his head. If he had said, “ There, indeed, you 
have the advantage of poor me,” he could not have expressed him- 
self more clearly. 

“We must really teach him to write, my dear,” observed Aunt 
Sophia, sotto wee. 

“If you will please to be so good,” said Tarilam, humbly. 

“Drat the man!” murmured Aunt Sophia, this time taking 
good care to be inaudible, “one cannot open one’s lips within a 
mile of him without his catching one up.” 

The acuteness of the prince’s sense was indeed amazing, and it 
had been brought to perfection by practice; that of his intelli- 
gence was also not less abnormal, but hitherto it had necessarily 
been dormant; and though “Knowledge to his eyes her ample 
page rich with the spoils of time had ne’er unrolled,” he longed 
to read it. This species of ambition is very rare among those we 
call savages, and indeed with uneducated people of all sorts, 
who generally seek to excuse their ignorance by a pretence of in- 
difference. Tarilam had none of this Pinchbeck stoicism; it was 
not often that in the contemplation of a novelty, however amaz- 
ing, he lost his dignity, but there were occasions when he did so. 


THE SHARK. 


161 


This happened, for example, on his first introduction to the ladies’ 
little parlor, where the mirror which had once ornamented the 
cuddy of the Ganges was let into the wall. 

It was curious, as the spectators of the circumstances after- 
wards agreed, that the mere sight of a perpendicular reflector — • 
for with a horizontal one he must, of course, have been familiar 
— should have so moved him; perhaps it struck him as hanging 
water, but his delight at it was like that of a child. 

Aunt Sophia and Conolly were greatly amused, but Edith was 
not so; it seemed somehow, in one of whom she had begun to 
form a high ideal, like a degradation; she was glad of the excuse 
of their having to change their attire, to withdraw from a scene 
that was nothing less than distressing to her. When she returned, 
the prince had exhausted his admiration of the mirror, and was 
entranced by another object. He was standing with a little un- 
framed water- color drawing in his hand, and discoursing of it 
to the midshipman ; she caught the words, ‘ ‘ tetmil, tetmil,” re- 
peated with great eagerness as she entered the room. 

“ The prince is charmed with your picture of the bathing cove, 
Miss Edith,” explained Conolly. 

“It is a compliment to me that he should have recognized it,” 
she replied, modestly. His approval would somehow have been 
more welcome to her — though she owned to herself that this feel- 
ing was unreasonable — had it been less extravagant; but as Tari- 
1am had never seen a picture, which seemed to him a species of 
magic, it was no wonder that the counterfeit presentment on can- 
vas, of a place he knew, aroused his amazement. 

Upon being informed that neither Aunt Sophia nor the mid- 
shipman could paint, he evinced unmistakable satisfaction. To 
have found that the whole race to which this enchantress be- 
longed was dowered with the same gift would have given him, 
perhaps, an impression of his own inferiority too hopeless and 
discouraging, just as the reflection that “there are forty poets in 
Paisley” must strike despondency to the hearts of its neighbor 
towns. The difficulty which the guest experienced in communi- 
cating his ideas did not, on the other hand, rouse in Edith any 
sense of shortcoming, while the obvious distress which his failure 
to do so sometimes caused him awoke her sympathy. 

The reason why so many people find pleasure in foreign travel, 
though only slightly acquainted with foreign tongues, is that nei- 
ther at home nor abroad have they any particular thoughts to 
communicate ; they are well content to be understood by the 
waiters; whereas the struggle with Tarilam at this early period 
was to render adequately and intelligibly not only the inferences 
and conclusions he drew from the novel objects around him, but 
his own views and opinions. 

11 


162 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MR. BATES FINDS HIS MASTER. 

It was amazing how soon, with the more cultured of his new 
friends at Faybur, and especially with the ladies, Prince Tarilam 
made himself at home. His very unlikeness, because it con- 
sisted mainly in an excessive simplicity, facilitated assimilation, 
and made it as easy to get on with him as with a truthful child. 
In matters that were within their common cognizance, on the 
other hand, he exhibited an extraordinary natural sagacity, aud 
with every accession of knowledge added to his attractions as a 
companion. 

With the sailors, however, this was not altogether the case. 
They had the usual prejudice of their class which induces them 
to apply the term “nigger” — however obviously inapplicable — 
to all persons not born of European parents, and causes them to 
be more sceptical even than the hereditary aristocrat o. the no- 
bility of nature. Some of them were jealous of the favor which 
the new-comer enjoyed with their superiors, and some resented 
the stranger’s marvellous physical gifts, which threw those of 
their best runners and swimmers and climbers completely into 
the shade. As time went on, however, and Tarilam’s generous 
nature began to be recognized, these antagonistic sentiments re- 
mained only among those comparatively few with whom superi- 
ority of any kind, but especially that of moral worth, is always 
offensive. Even the two attendants that remained with him 
were treated for his sake with a civility which the captain’s ex- 
press commands would have otherwise failed to secure to them. 
It would have been hard, indeed, had it not been so, for they gave 
no trouble, and when not employed in ministering to the needs 
of their young master made themselves generally useful in a hun- 
dred ways. 

A small canoe had been left with them, and they taught the 
men such arts of propelling it without stretcher or rowlock as 
seemed impossible till they themselves had learned the accom- 
plishment; they showed them how to catch fish by novel methods, 
and how, when caught, to smoke them, so as to make provision 
for the future; how to make rope as strong as cables out of the 
parasitic creepers that hung like cobwebs from the trees; how 
to make mats and baskets, and to express from certain fruits a 
sherbet which they would have pronounced excellent had it but 
had a little rum in it. Nay, at the captain’s request, these good- 
natured fellows even gave rudimentary lessons in the planting of 
yams, though they thought it, in common with all other useful 
labor, very literally infra dig. and only suitable for women. 


MR. BATES FINDS IIIS MASTER. 


163 


All Ibis time, wiiile the harbor at Faybur remained like a mill- 
pond above the mill, and the little island basked in simsbine and 
soft airs, the open sea was so liigb and rough that all communi- 
cation was cut off with Breda. The prince and bis two attend- 
ants were as completely separated from their own belongings as 
though they had been exiles, and, so far as be was concerned, he 
became everyday more naturalized and familiar with bis new 
surroundings. In old times be bad bad thoughts, which the tra- 
ditions and superstitions of bis people bad forbidden him to en- 
courage, of annexing Faybur to the paternal dominions ; and 
though it was now no longer in bis power to do so, be found an 
attraction in it such as bis native isle did not possess, lie passed 
most of bis time at what might be called the seminary in “La- 
dies’ Bay,” where he showed an extraordinary facility in acquir- 
ing, like a child at a dame’s school, not only the rudiments of the 
English tongue, but “the three K’s.” Hitherto his method of 
computation had been of the simplest; as many as one’s eyes, as 
many as a crow’s toes, as many as one’s fingers. Both hands 
and one over made eleven, and was the limit of calculation. The 
feathers of a bird, the waves of the sea, and the number of stars 
in the firmament had all been for him just eleven. 

He could now tot up to millions, and if the achievement gave 
him no great advantage, he derived an immense satisfaction from 
the curriculum that carried him thither. Never had pupil more 
kindly teachers than had he in the two ladies; never had tutors a- 
more eager or grateful pupil. His difficulties, though they were 
often absurd, were never laughed at, with one exception. He 
had a difficulty, as many of us have at home, though of a differ- 
ent kind, with the letter h, which even his musical voice could 
never pronounce soft enough; and it was a never-ending joke 
with his gentle preceptors that he always addressed one of them 
as Aunt Soapy. 

When he accompanied them in their rambles, like a Sandford 
and Merton rolled into one, attended by two female Mr. Barlows, 
his education was still continued, so that he learned as much out 
of school as in it; and, what was rather significant, had it been 
worth any one’s while to observe it, when he was not walking 
with the ladies he preferred to walk by himself. It would be in- 
teresting to know, could one have got to “the back of mind,” 
what the thoughts of this singular being were occupied with on 
these occasions. It is certain that (in one sense, at least) he did 
not think much of his ancestors. Though the descendant of a 
long line of kings, their power seemed but paltry, their aims ig- 
noble, and their exploits of little worth. Culture, indeed, had had 
an effect on him very different from the result which it too often 
produces among ourselves; he was not puffed up by his newly 
acquired superiority over his own race, but rather depressed by 
the sense of what was lacking in them, and by his own inferiority 
to those about him; he had escaped being a prig (if one can im- 


164 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


agine a Breda prig), because he was not cultured beyond his wits. 
What he had acquired, vast as it was in comparison with his pre- 
vious knowledge, had but convinced him how much he had yet to 
learn. Yet there is reason to believe that his reflections were not 
all despondent. It is no evidence of vanity to be conscious of our 
own dormant powers, ^sop felt it in slavery, and Keats at the 
horse-jobber’s; not that Tarilam was either philosopher or poet, 
but only that he felt himself fit for something beyond bestowing 
toffy on royal favorites, or even distributing Orders of the Bone 
to meritorious man-slayers. If his vague and simple aspirations 
could have been put into words, they might have found appropri- 
ate expression in the poetic phrase, “ Better fifty years of Europe 
than a cycle of Cathay;” albeit that yet unwritten line was not 
more unknown to him than Europe was. He was conscious onl}’- 
that beyond the sea somewhere there was another world, peopled 
with beings of a higher nature than his own, and whose life was 
more worth living. It may be he was wrong; “ the wild joys of 
life,” the dive through the '‘league-long rollers,” and the coming 
up through the blue wave beyond it, the rush, dart in hand, 
through the air, on the ranks of the foe, the fray, and the feast, 
may be worth all our lacquer and gilding, but, if so, Tarilam erred 
in good company and from no ignoble instinct. 

Thus thoughtfully was he strolling one morning along the cliff- 
top that looked towards Breda, and at a distance from the camp, 
which, considering the nature of the ground, would have taken an 
ordinary walker some time to cover, when he suddenly perceived 
Mr. Bates coming towards him. The figure of the third mate was 
of course familiar to him, but there was something in the move- 
ments of the man that puzzled him. He was gesticulating vio- 
lently; holding up his hand as if to forbid his further advance, 
and shouting with discordant emphasis. 

“Stop!” he cried, “you something nigger I” Then came an 
oath such as Tarilam had sometimes heard from the sailors, but 
the meaning of which he could never understand, for swearing is a 
product of civilization, and was unknown in Breda. “ Keep where 
you are, I say; we don’t want any prying savages hereabouts!” 

Tarilam could perceive the man was angry, but had no concep- 
tion of the cause, nor did it give him any disquietude. What mo- 
nopolized his attention was the strangeness of his gait — he lurched 
and swayed as he came on, and occasionally stumbled. If Tarilam 
had ever seen a horse with the staggers— but he had never even 
seen a horse, or evolved the idea of one out of the depths of his 
own consciousness— it would have reminded him of j\Ir. Bates, 
but if he had ever seen a man attempting to walk when very drunk, 
a still more perfect parallel would have occurred to him. 

“Hi, hi! you; stop, I say!” By this time the tw'o had met, and 
Mr. Bates, with a flushed face and protruding eyes, had placed him- 
self straight— or as straight as he could— before him, so as effect- 
ually to bar his progress. “Now just you go home again.” 


MR. BATES FINDS HIS MASTER. 


165 


“Go home!” repeated the prince, with mild surprise. “ Why 
should I go home?” 

“ Well, there are a thousand reasons, but one will do — because 
Ave don’t want no niggers here. Now just be off.” Of the exact 
sense of the man’s words, stammered and hiccoughed as they were, 
there might have been easily some doubt, but about the tone in 
which they were uttered there could be none at all. If Tarilain 
had been a dog which had been bidden to go home by a brutal 
and ill-tempered master, he could not have been addressed more 
insultingly. Into the bronzed cheek of the prince there suddenly 
came a vivid color, and into his soft eyes a flash of flame, which, 
had Mr. Bates been in his usual frame of mind — which was in- 
clined to prudence — would have warned him of danger like a sig- 
nal-fire. But the third mate was in an abnormally heroic state, 
full of ire, and also of the courage called Dutch. 

“Look here,” he stuttered, “you nigger, you’ll have to go, and 
if you make me speak again you’ll not do it with a whole skin. 
It is bad enough that you and those other two dusky devils should 
be kept in camp, holding your heads up and thinking yourselves 
the equals of Christian men, not to mention of officers and gentle- 
men like myself, but that you should come peeping and prying 
out of bounds here is intolerable. Go home, I say.” 

“No.” The monosyllable was uttered gently, but with a deter- 
mination which was unmistakable, and the speaker looked straight 
into the other’s eyes as he said it. The quietness of expression in 
his face added, no douDt, to -the temptation of its proximity, and 
^Ir. Bates struck him on the mouth with the back of his hand. 
The next moment he Avas swaying in air, Avith a consciousness of 
space about him, and of a fall of about four hundred feet sheer 
upon a rocky beach. 

Mr. Bates’s hair, in the absence of any barber, had groAvn long, 
and the other had seized him by it, as one takes a rabbit by tlie 
ears, and swung him off the cliff-top. Face to face with the ter- 
rors of instant death, the drunken Avretch was solxu-ed in a mo- 
ment; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his limbs grew 
limp like those of a dead man on the gallows-tree, but all his senses 
Avere keen enough. 

He heard a sudden voice a long way off cry, “Tarilam! Tarilam!” 
in a tone of earnest entreaty, and he knew that the midshipman Con- 
oily Avas pleading for his life. Never did eavesdropper listen to a 
conversation not intended for his private ear with a greater atten- 
tion than this gentleman sus per col paid to the subsequent dialogue. 

“Let him go! let him go!” hallooed the midshipman. IMr. Bates, 
Avhen he heard that phrase, reflected Avith a pang upon the indefi- 
niteness of the English tongue; the prince might very Avell have 
taken the Avords as'an encouragement to drop him instead of pull- 
ing him up. “Don’t kill him! spare him!” shouted the midship- 
man, Avhose voice, as it grcAV nearer, unhappily became less distinct 
through want of breath. 


166 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“He struck me,” answered the prince, irresolutely, and without 
turning his head. He seemed to be selecting the most jagged rock 
for the reception of the body of Mr. Bates, which was oscillating 
under his hand like a pendulum. “No man has ever struck Tari- 
larn and lived to say so.” 

“ For my sake, for my sake,” urged the midshipman, “ I beseech 
you not to let him fall.” 

“You are my chosen friend; I can refuse you nothing,” mur- 
mured the prince, regretfully ; and with no more effort than it 
costs a sailor to heave the lead, he landed the third mate upon terra 
firma, where he lay, though he was not so inanimate as he looked, 
like a sack just dropped from a crane. 

“How did it happen? What did he quarrel with you about?” 
inquired Conolly, hurrying up, and gazing with amazement on the 
prostrate mate. 

“ I don’t know,” answered Tarilam, gloomily. “ He wandered 
in his walk, and stumbled in his talk, and was angry, and then 
he gave me a blow. I shall feel it here,” and he touched his - 
mouth, “ as long as I live.” 

“It has not marked you,” replied Conolly, naively — in the 
midshipman’s mess blows were not uncommon in those days, nor 
the demands of honor very exacting — “but you may depend 
upon it, he will never boast of it — will you, sir?” This appeal he 
made to Mr. Bates himself in answer to a glance of adhesion from 
that gentleman to the promise thus made on his behalf. 

“ 1 will never, never boast of it,” he murmured, earnestly. 
“The prince may take his davey of that.” 

Indeed, it was pretty clear that, as regards recent proceedings, 
Mr. Bates had not very much to boast of, and might well be trust- 
ed to be silent for his own sake. 

“ Come, let us go back to camp,” said Conolly, persuasively. 

With a quiet gesture of assent, Tarilam turned away, and with- 
out so much as a glance at his still prostrate foe, began to retrace 
his steps. Mr. Bates’s eyes, like those of a snake in the grass, 
followed him with an expression of concentrated malignity, which 
also included his young preserver. 

“To-day for you, my friends,” he muttered, between his teeth, 
“to-morrow for me.” 

It would have been better for all parties, himself included, had 
Mr. Bates been permitted to obey the laws of gravity. 

It may be taken, as a rule, that the time which is given to an 
unmitigated scoundrel to repent himself in is passed in some oc- 
cupation of quite another kind, and Mr. Bates was no exception 
to it. A bad man’s life is like a bad novel; the third volume is 
generally the worst part of it; and there is little cause for regret 
if its conclusion is what the reviewers describe as “hurried.” 


LET US KILL THE NIGGER ! 


16V 


CHAPTER XXX. 

LET US KILL THE NIGGER ! 

Life in Faybur, though for the most part uneventful enough, 
did not run quite so smoothly with Captain Head and his oflScers 
as, thanks to their solicitude, it was made to do for the two la- 
dies. That that private still, the existence of which Edith had so 
unconsciously betrayed to Mr. Marston, was from time to time 
at work somewhere, though its whereabouts — for the scene of its 
operations was easily shifted — had hitherto remained undiscov- 
ered, was certain; half a dozen cases of drunkenness had come 
under the notice of the authorities, and given them great disquie- 
tude. Their anxiety would have been even greater had it not 
Seemed pretty clear that the offence was confined to a few of the 
sailors only; not, as was rightly concluded, that every man jack 
of them after so prolonged an abstinence would not have got 
drunk if he could, but that those who had so ingeniously invent- 
ed the means of indulging themselves in that luxury took care to 
keep the secret to themselves. The wisdom of this reticence was 
unquestionable; for, as matters stood, it was difficult to punish 
even those who were manifestly guilty of the offence in question. 

“It is all very well,” Messrs. Murdoch, Rudge, and Mellor 
would stutter, when accused of being intoxicated — and it was these 
three men who most frequently fell under that suspicion — “ but 
how is it possible for a fellow to get drunk when every drop of 
liquor is under lock and key in the doctor’s tent?” They contin- 
ued to attribute their condition to the effect of the climate upon 
their respective systems, and except that there was a kettle miss- 
ing, the uses of which it was not judicious for “the court” to 
point out to the public at large, there was really no means of refut- 
ing this line of defence. The gravity of the danger, however, 
was fully recognized; and while each instance of delinquency was 
hushed up as much as possible, not a stone was left unturned to 
discover the root of the mischief. 

Of all this the two ladies were blissfully ignorant, and though 
Edith, as we know, had her own views of the doubtful tenure on 
which authority existed in Faybur, the matter had of late months 
troubled her but little. One could not say that her thoughts were 
fixed elsewhere, but they had wandered with more or less persis- 
tency in another direction. The arrival of Prince Tarilam had 
very agreeably broken the monotony of life in Ladies’ Bay. It 
had from the first been a pleasure to teach him, so far as she was 
competent to do so, those “Fairy Tales of Science” and “Long 
Results of Time,” the simplest details of which had for him the 
attributes of a miracle and the attractions of magic. To note his 


1G8 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


mind expanding under the light of knowledge, like a flower in 
the sun, was a spectacle most interesting to her, while before long 
the advantage became not wholly on one side, but reciprocal, and 
she found herself listening almost as often to a tutor as talking to 
a pupil. However simple were the views of Tarilam, they were 
original, and while as natural as those of a child appealing to his 
elders, were also as audacious. Untrammelled by custom and the 
restrictions imposed by education, he discussed with as much 
firmness as freedom the ways of fate and the mysteries of being. 
The simple but illogical faith of his own people he had never ac- 
cepted, but had hitherto been content with a contemptuous toler- 
ance of it. The theology which he learned from Edith recom- 
mended itself to him in many ways, but by no means exhausted 
his spiritual curiosity. Aunt Sophia was often not less appalled by 
the boldness of his speculations than amazed by their intelligence. 

On the other hand, there were reasons connected with Edith’s 
antecedents — the blight that had fallen upon her happiness in the 
loss of her lover, and made a broken column of her young life — ' 
that prevented these “ obstinate questionings ” from shocking her, 
and even to some extent recommended the interrogator. Not even 
in the old days, with Layton himself, had she discussed these 
matters with so much freedom and interest. 

After the employments of the day were over, some of which, 
too, he usually shared with the ladies, it had become a custom 
with the prince to join them at their evening meal; an officer or 
two, or the chaplain, would sometimes be of the party, and still 
more often Master Conolly, who would contribute to the amuse- 
ments of the evening by his gift of song. But at other times 
Tarilam would visit the ladies quite alone; and on such occasions 
Edith found his company most agreeable, because he was then 
more like himself, and would express his natural sentiments with- 
out that dread of ridicule which had already found its place in a 
breast that had hitherto been absolutely fearless. One evening, 
when the three were occupied in the usual manner — the two la- 
dies employed in needle-work, and Tarilam fashioning some grace- 
ful ornament out of tortoise-shell, an art in which he was a profi- 
cient — their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a tumult 
without; there were a roar of voices and a rush of feet, and hard- 
ly had they risen from their chairs before the little cottage was 
surrounded by a mob of sailors, and the parlor windows, which, 
as usual, were wide open, filled by excited and furious faces. 

“ What is the matter?” inquired Edith, with quiet distinctness. 
Her face was pale, but otherwise she exhibited no sign of fear. 
Aunt Sophia, on the other hand, was speechless with terror. It 
was the impression of both women that a mutiny had broken out. 

“ Matter enough, miss,” returned a voice she knew; it was that 
of William Dean, the gunner, a man who had always borne a good 
character, and behaved himself to her with great respect. “Mur- 
der’s the matter, and yonder stands the man who did it.” 


LET US IvTll the nigger ! 


169 


He pointed to the prince, and as he did so a tumultuous and 
inarticulate cry of fury arose from those about him. 

“Kill him! kill the nigger!” 

“Make way, then,” interposed a brutal voice. “Don’t talk, 
Init do. Let me get a shot at him.” And, flushed with rage and 
liquor, the man Mellor, pistol in hand, here forced himself to the 
front, and levelled his weapon at Tarilam’s head. 

Before he could pull the trigger Edith had stepped swiftly be- 
tween them. 

“You vile cow^ard!” she cried. “Is there no man here who 
will see fair play and justice done?” 

“Justice! Yes; we’ll see justice done,” answered a shrill voice. 
“Let us take him to the same spot, lads, where he killed the mate, 
and serve him likewise.” 

“ What, without trial?” cried Edith, vehemently. “ Are you 
savages, tlien, who have forgotten that you were once English- 
men? William Dean, Luke Norman, Robert Ray, as you are hon- 
est men, I charge you to stand by me!” 

“ We mean no harm to you, miss,” returned the gunner, “ but as 
for this here prince, as he calls himself, we must have life for life.” 

“ And so you shall, if he has taken life. I’ll stake my own that 
he is innocent. Look at him, men, and tell me if he wears a mur- 
derer’s face.” 

Like a curtain that conceals some noble picture, she drew her- 
self aside and showed him to them. 

Motionless as a statue, he stood confronting them, with a sort of 
mild amazement in his Lice. The confusion of tongues had pre- 
vented his half-cultured ear from catching what was said, but he 
could perceive that the intruders were violently enraged and 
against himself. It was his first experience (save one) of brutal 
passion in his new acquaintances, and it seemed to afford him all 
the interest of novelty. Ilis eyes glanced from one to the other in 
dumb surprise, and then turned interrogatively to Edith. 

“Tarilam does not understand,” he murmured, with a quiet 
smile. 

“ They say you have committed a murder.” 

“No.” Never was charge so serious met by so phlegmatic a 
denial. There was no more waste of tone than of words about 
it. If he had been accused of leaving the door open, he could 
not have defended himself with greater indifference, or at the 
same time more convincingly. The shake of the head that ac- 
companied the monosyllable intensified alike its force and its 
sang-froid. “If anything of the kind has h appened,” it seemed 
to say, “ I do assure you it was not I who did it.” 

Had his audience, indeed, been one capable of appreciating the 
value of evidence, the prince would have no longer been in dan- 
ger; but the men were blind with passion, and, moreover, there 
w^ere some among them less concerned to detect a culprit than to 
sacrifice a victim. 


170 


A PKINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


“He is lying! Kill the nigger! kill him,” arose again from all 
sides; nor was it possible that a catastrophe could have been 
much longer averted had not a murmur from the fringe of the 
crowd announced the arrival of assistance. “ Stand back, boys; 
here’s the captain !” 

It was not indeed the captain, but his avant-courier. Master 
Conolly, who had run on ahead of him, and with drawn cutlass 
was in a moment scattering the crowd to left and right. The 
man Mellor, indeed, presented his pistol at him, but another sailor 
who stood by struck the barrel upward and the weapon exploded 
in the air. 

The sound of it seemed to remind the rest of the seriousness 
of their course of conduct and had a sobering effect, which was 
greatly increased by the appearance of the captain, followed by 
Mr. Redmayne, both armed to the teeth. 

“Who fired that pistol?” he inquired, in a tone sharp and short 
as the shot itself. 

“John Mellor.” 

“Is any one hurt here?” The captain was looking into the 
little parlor and “ counting heads ” as he put the question. 

“No, sir.” 

“That’s well, and especially well for John Mellor,” was the 
grim reply; “for if one hair of these ladies, or of the prince, their 
guest, had been injured, I would have shot him dead.” 

Mr. Mellor vanished silently away, and the crowd began to thin. 

“You mutinous scoundrels!” continued the captain. “What 
is it you want that you must needs raise this tumult and disgrace 
yourselves in the eyes of our friend and ally?” 

A murmur of discontent and menace ran through the crowd. 

“He has committed murder.” 

“What! the prince? Who says so? Let the man that can 
prove it stand forth. Would you commit murder yourselves by 
slaying a man without trial? That a foul crime has been done 
in our midst is only too true, but it cannot be wiped out by an- 
other. Come, all of you, to the officers’ tent, and hear the mat- 
ter sifted. Prince Tarilam, I must trouble you to come with us; 
for though no assurance of yours is necessary to clear you in my 
eyes, this miserable suspicion must be stamped out.” 

With a pained and wondering look, such as children wear who 
are witnesses to the quarrels of their seniors, Tarilam bowed as- 
sent. It had been brought home to him for the first time that 
these superior people, dowered with such gifts and attributes that 
had seemed to him little short of superhuman, could be as violent 
and irrational, when the humor seized them, as the natives of 
Amrac. As he took leave of the ladies he retained Edith’s hand 
in his for a few seconds. 

“You stood between me and the short gun,” he murmured, 
with intense emotion. “But for you Tarilam would have been 
a dead man. He will never forget it.” 


THE EXAMINATION. 


171 

I ran no risk,” she would have answered, but with his usual 
swift and noiseless tread he was gone in a moment. 

Conolly and a couple of sailors who could be relied on were left 
behind as a guard for the ladies. 

What had happened they had yet to learn, but that such a pre- 
caution should have been deemed necessary to their safety was 
full of sombre significance. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE EXAMINATION. 

The “officers’ quarters” in the camp at Faybur was a long, 
narrow tent, furnished, not uncomfortably, with the contents of 
half a dozen cabins. Everything, however, had this evening been 
moved away from the centre of the apartment, to make room for 
a certain something which lay under a sheet, on trestles, and at 
once, with a terrible fascination, attracted every eye. The feet 
standing out stark and stitf, and the veiled face showing sharply 
through its covering, presented the unmistakable lineaments of 
death. How is it, one wonders, that no sooner has the breath 
of life departed than the very form that contained it becomes new 
and strange to the eye of the living. Heaven forbid that it may 
be no foretaste or analogue of the final separation from us of the 
soul. 

Young as he was, Tarilam had seen death in many forms, nor 
had it for him the awe and mystery that it possesses for more 
cultured minds ; but as he followed the captain’s steps, he ap- 
proached the silent shape with a certain air of reverence as well 
as interest that had its effect upon the beholders. Quietly and 
without crowding, the majority of the castaways had entered the 
tent and were regarding his demeanor with keen attention. If 
the prince had really committed the murder, as one observed to 
the other, it could not have been the first by many, or he could 
scarcely have “kept himself so cool” in the presence of his vic- 
tim. Once only he showed signs of perturbation — when they 
reached the corpse, and the captain gently drew back the sheet 
and revealed the features of the first mate. Then Tarilam uttered 
the dead man’s name, with infinite gentleness, and sighed pro- 
foundly. “ I did not know it had been so good a friend of mine,” 
he simply said. 

“So good a friend of all of us,” exclaimed the captain, .vehe- 
mently. “A more dutiful officer, and a more loyal messmate 
than "Robert Marston never drew breath. My curse upon the 
cowardly hand that slew him.” 

“And mine,” “And mine,” cried several voices. 

There was something menacing — nay, almost blood-thirsty — in 
the ring of them, which seemed to remind the captain that there 
was less need to arouse the general indignation than to turn it 


172 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


into the proper channel. When he spoke again his voice took 
a graver and more judicial tone. “This poor fellow here, my 
friends, was as dear to me as to any one of you, and none can be 
more resolved than I to avenge him; but, above all things^ let us 
be just. We have no lawyers among us, but it will be possible, 
I hope, to get to the bottom of this matter without them; and, in 
the first place, it behooves us to hear what those have to say who 
saw him first where he lay dead. As for me, I know nothing ex- 
cept from hearsay. Mr. Redmayne yonder brings me word that 
Mr. Marston has been picked up on the beach with his head bat- 
tered in, and Mr. Doyle reports that he is dead. That is all that 
1 know for certain, and all that nine-tenths of you can know; j^et 
I find fifty men have taken upon themselves to lay the guilt at 
the door of a fellow-creature because his skin is a trifle darker 
than their own, William Dean, you were one of those men. 
Now let us hear what accusation you bring against Prince Tari- 
1am, and on what grounds.” 

The gunner stepped forward with an embarrassed air. “I 
know nothing, sir, but what I was told by my mates; they said 
that tlie prince had done it to their certain knowledge.” 

“ Who said?” interrupted the captain, curtly; “ let us have their 
names, if you please.” 

“ Well, sir, there was Mellor for one.” 

“Very good, let Mellor stand forth. You are the man who 
fired a pistol just now at Mr. Conolly, to prove your detestation 
of murder, I suppo.se. Well, what do you know about this 
other?” 

“The pistol went off of its own head in my hand,” growled 
Mellor. “I never meant to hurt the young gentleman; it was 
that prince as we were after.” 

“ Why, what had he done?” 

“Chucked Mr, Marston over the cliff.” 

The sort of murmur which is called “ sensation,” mixed with 
a note of assent, here arose from the crowd. They had found a 
spokesman to justify their late proceedings at last. 

“You saw him do it, did you?” 

“ No, I didn’t, but Rudge and Murdoch, they saw him.” 

“ Let Rudge and Murdoch stand forth.” 

The two men obeyed, Rudge willingly and even demonstrative- 
ly enough, Murdoch with less promptness. Ilis face was white 
to the lips, and he kept it studiously averted from the spot where 
the dead man was lying. 

“ Now tell us what you know, Rudge.” 

“ It w'as my afternoon off duty, and I was rambling about the 
island with Murdoch, and presently I got tired, and sat down to 
have a smoke, and Murdoch he went farther on, I had not been 
two minutes alone, when I heard him cry out, ‘Rudge! Rudge!’ 
and 1 jumped up and ran to him. He was standing on the cliff- 
top, pointing down below; and I looked down and "saw the body 


THE EXAMINATION. 


173 


on the beach. ‘ Burst my buttons,’ says I, ‘ why, if it ain’t Mr. 
Marston!”’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ he cries, ‘some one has pitched him over the cliff;’ 
and he was shaking his head and flapping his hands, and very 
much put out about it was Murdoch.” 

“ But how did he know Mr. Marston had been pushed over the 
cliff?” inquired the captain. “Why might he not have fallen 
over?” 

“ I suppose he never thought of that,” said Budge, stolidly. 

“That was it; I never thought of that,” echoed Murdoch, re- 
plying to his mate’s look of inquiry. His voice was hoarse and 
mechanical; and when he had spoken, his tongue flickered about 
his lips as though they were in need of moisture. 

“Now, I should have thought that had been the most likely 
supposition to come into any man’s mind, unless it was already 
running on something else,” observed the captain, reflectively. 
“Mr Marston yonder ” (here he leaned his head sidewise towards 
his dead friend exactly as he would have done had he been alive) 
“was not one to make enemies.” 

“ True for you, sir; that is so,” was murmured on all sides. 

“Then, why should the notion of any one’s having done him a 
mischief have entered into your mind?” inquired the captain, 

“The ground was trodden all about as though a struggle had 
been going on,” exclaimed Budge, “and the grass on the brink 
of the hill-cliff was torn away in tufts as though some one had 
clung there till he had been flung off.” 

“I am speaking to Murdoch, not to you. Budge,” exclaimed 
the captain, sharply. “I suppose he has a tongue of his own in 
his head like the rest of us.” 

If that was so, the person in question did not seem at all inclined 
to use it; he stood silent, with his arms folded on his chest, his 
head sunk forward, and his eyes doggedly fixed upon the ground. 
The captain glanced from this unattractive object to his guest, 
who, with head erect and fine form drawn to its full height, pre- 
sented indeed a strange contrast to it. “Now I want to know 
who it was, that having satisfied himself so easily that there was 
murder done here, went a step farther, and laid it at the door of 
Prince Tarilam?” 

“It was Mr. Bates, sir,” said Dean, the gunner. 

“ Mr. Bates!” exclaimed the captain, in astonishment. “ Then, 
why is not Mr. Bates himself here to say so?” 

“ He ain’t very well, sir,” observed Budge; “ he was took bad 
at the sight of Mr. Marston. But he told us with his own lips 
that the prince had done it, for he had almost served him the 
same trick himself, at the very same place, not three weeks ago.” 

“Do you mean that he said the prince had tried to throw him 
over the cliff?” 

“ Yes, sir, he did, and that Mr. Conolly caught him at it.” 

“Fetch Mr. Bates and Mr. Conolly here this moment.” 


174 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“ Mr. Bates is ill in bed, sir.” 

“ Then bring him out of his bed. I don’t move from this spot 
till this affair is sifted to the very bottom.” 

As a legal investigation, the captain’s method of proceeding 
left much to be desired. It was as hap hazard and inconsequent 
as it was informal; but it was not altogether unadapted to the 
materials with which he had to deal; while the personal interest, 
and even the bias, he showed in the matter were far from being 
resented by his audience. The appearance of Matthew Murdoch, 
and the manner in which he had made his statement, had preju- 
diced them against him; but they were also prejudiced against 
Tarilam. There was so little logic in their mental composition 
that they did not understand that if one of the two “suspects” 
was guilty the other must needs be innocent. 

Presently Mr. Bates appeared, led between two men, which gave 
him the air of being in custody. His face was red and swollen, 
his eyes were unnaturally prominent, and wandered round the 
tent as if in search of something. When they lit upon the dead 
man, however, he took no more notice of him than if he had been 
asleep. 

“It was Tarilam as did it,” were his first words. 

The captain, without attention to the abrupt and voluntary char- 
acter of this statement, merely inquired, “How do you know that?” 

“Because he tried to kill me in the same way. He held me 
over the cliff-top and would have dropped me, just as he dropped 
Mr. Marston, and on the very same point of rock. He knew the 
best place to do it.” 

A murmur of indignation went round the tent. Here was evi- 
dence enough, indeecl, and to the taste of the hearers. 

The captain turned mechanically to the prince, who gravely 
bowed his head. “ It is quite true that I meant to drop him,” he 
quietly said. “He struck me.” 

There was a low growl of anger and discontent. “He has 
confessed it!” muttered a voice or two; and one man cried, “Hang 
him! hang him!” 

The captain held up his hand for silence. 

“ Why was I never told of this, Mr. Bates?” 

“ Mr. Conolly asked me not to tell.” 

“ Let us hear what Mr. Conolly has to say about it.” 

The midshipman had by this time arrived, followed by the two 
ladies, for whom the crowd made way. They did not, however, 
push to the front, but shrank from the neighborhood of the dead 
body; they had only just learned the nature of the catastrophe 
which had caused the mob to invade their dwelling; their dis- 
tress on Mr. Marston’s account was extreme, the elder lady was 
almost overwhelmed by it, and would willingly have remained 
within-doors, but she could not permit her niece to come unat- 
tended, and Edith’s interest in the living had overborne her nat- 
ural tremors. 


THE EXA3IIXATI0N. 


175 


Conolly stepped forward and briefly stated what he knew of 
the rencontre between the prince and the third mate. It was 
quite true, he said, that he had kept silence upon the matter, but 
not more for the prince’s sake than for that of Mr. Bates, who had 
committed an unprovoked assault upon him. The prince had re- 
sented it, no doubt, with unnecessary violence, but from what he 
(Conolly) knew of him, he was, he was persuaded, quite incapa- 
ble of any such unprovoked and murderous outrage as was now 
laid to his charge. 

The third mate seemed to take no notice of this observation; 
he moved his hands across his eyes, as though to sweep away 
some obstacle, and peered through the crowd in the direction of 
the ladies with anxious persistence. Edith was speaking eagerly, 
though in low tones, to Mr. Redma3nie, who in his turn whis- 
pered a few words to the captain. “By all means. Let us hear 
what Mr. Doyle has to say upon the matter,” answered the latter 
aloud. 

The surgeon, who had just removed from the captain’s side to 
that of Mr. Bates, here answered to his name. 

“ When was it that you first saw Mr. Marston at the foot of the 
cliff?” 

“About an hour and a half ago, sir.” 

“Was he then alive?” 

“ No, sir. No man could have lived for one minute after such 
injuries as he had received. On the other hand, from the condi- 
tion of the body he could not have been dead long; half an hour 
at the most.” 

“ You are confident of that?” said the captain. 

“lam quite certain that he had not been dead an hour.” 

“Miss Norbury,” said the captain, “can you state with accu- 
racy at what time Prince Tarilam came to your house this even- 
ing?” 

Aunt Sophia strove to speak, but the situation was overpower- 
ing; the knowledge that every eye was turned on her, but especially 
the spectacle of the dead man, who seemed to be awaiting like the 
rest, in dumb expectancy, her momentous reply, was too much for 
her nerves. “ I can answer that question,” said Edith, in a firm 
and confident tone, “for it so happened that I remarked to my 
aunt upon the circumstance that Prince Tarilam had joined us 
earlier than usual. It was fully two hours ago.” 

“Did you look at your watch?” 

“ My aunt did so.” 

Here Aunt Sophia found her voice. 

“It is quite true. Captain Head; it is exactly two hours and a 
half since the prince joined us.” 

A murmur of satisfaction ran through the crowd. The watch 
that Miss Norbury held in her hand appealed to their senses as no 
mere verbal testimony would have done. 

“That circumstance, at all events, frees our guest from all sus- 


176 


A PlllNCE OF THE ELOOD. 


picion of guilt in this matter, ’’observed the captain, “I think it 
is due to him, Mr. Bates, that you should acknowledge as much.” 

The third mate answered not a word. He was staring wildly 
at Edith, with both his hands stretched out before him. “ I never 
pushed liim over!” he cried. “He jumped over of himself. I 
can’t help his dripping with water. Keep him off, I say! keep 
him off!” The intense terror of the man manifest in his face and 
eye and trembling limbs was shocking to witness, and communi- 
cated itself to those about him. They fled from him in all direc- 
tions, and left him standing by the corpse. The surgeon only 
kept his place by his side. 

“ Can any one explain the meaning of this?” inquired the cap- 
tain, in an awe-struck tone. “Is it possible that this unhappy 
man is confessing to having perpetrated the crime himself?” 

“ Ho, sir,” said Mr. Doyle, with an air of conviction. “It is 
fair to say that there is evidence enough that he was absent when 
the murder-— for a murder I fear it was — w^as committed. Mr. 
Bates is suffering from an attack of delirium tremens. ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

WAS IT POSSIBLE ? 

Shocking as was the murder of Mr. Marston to his friend the 
captain, it was hardly more terrible or symptomatic of trouble 
to come than was the professional dictum pronounced by Mr. 
Doyle as respected the third mate. Delirium tremens is not a 
disease that is engendered by occasional excess, though even that 
would make the circumstance of the gravest significance, but by 
long continuous drinking habits ; and these ha'd been proved to 
exist in one of his own officers, a man in duty bound to set an 
example of sobriety, and especially to discover and expose the 
drunkenness which had so mysteriously crept into the camp. 
That the offence was closely connected with the assassination of 
the first mate there could now be little doubt. Mr. Marston had 
been very active in his endeavors to find out whence the liquor 
came, and who supplied it, which had of late been demoraliz- 
ing the men; and it was only too probable that in some solitary 
expedition he had come upon the delinquents in the very act of 
distillation, and had fallen a victim to their violence. Edith her- 
self, as we know, had been stopped and turned back for a similar 
reason, and Tarilam had been treated in the like manner. 

In their case their object had not been detection, and therefore 
their lives had not been sacrificed by those they had involuntarily 
disturbed in their wrong-doing. Mr. Marston, an officer devoted 
to his duties, and to be deterred by no menaces of personal vio- 
lence, had perished at their lawless hands. So far the matter was 
clear, but as to who had been the actual murderers— for it was 


WAS IT POSSIBLE? 


Ill 


probable, unless tlie first mate had been taken at a disadvantage, 
which the signs of conflict about the fatal place seemed to evidence, 
there were more than one — it was by no means certain. 

Appearances seemed to point to Murdoch and Rudge, but not 
more strongly than to Mr. Bates himself, who, however, was 
freed from the consequence of his own confession (or what looked 
very like it) by the testimony of Mr. Doyle, in whose company he 
had walked from the camp when the surgeon was summoned to 
the scene of the murder. At that time the third mate was sober 
enough, and had appeared greatly moved at what had happened. 
Indeed, it was Mr. Doyle’s impression that Bates had taken to 
liquor immediately on his return to camp, in order to drown the 
remembrance of the spectacle he had just beheld. 

For the present, such were the doubts and ditflculties that over- 
hung the case that the murderer of Mr. Marstou remained un- 
punished— a thing itself of sombre import and evil augury. Mr. 
Bates, indeed, was deprived of his rank, and solemnly warned that 
on the next occasion of being found in a state of intoxication he 
should be soundly flogged; but even this measure, however just 
and salutary, had danger in it, since it openly threw into the arms 
of the disaffected an ally to whom there still clung some relics of 
authority. 

If, then, circumstances gave rise to apprehension in a man so 
solid and “four square to every wind that blew ” as Captain Head, 
we may imagine how they affected the ladies. It was only too 
evident to tliem that Faybur had ceased to be that paradise in 
which, though cut off from home and friends, they had long re- 
signed themselves to pass their lives. To Edith, indeed, the pros- 
pect had been even welcome, but neither Aunt Sophia nor herself 
had contemplated the possibility of such events as had lately taken 
place. The place was an Eden still, but not the same Eden to 
them as it had been before the serpent had made known its pres- 
ence. The stain of murder seemed to blotch the fairness of Nat- 
ure herself, the fumes of liquor to mingle with the perfumes of 
the air, and the dark clouds of insecurity to gather shape and 
volume in the azure sky. Only one or two were in all probability 
connected with the actual crime, but it was only too likely that 
others were cognizant of it, and it was no wonder that a certain 
distrust of their own people arose in the two women’s minds. 
This was greatly intensified by the late behavior of the sailors 
towards the prince; Edith especially could not forget the specta- 
cle of those furious faces at her window, or the cries with which 
they had demanded his innocent blood. They would have taken 
the life of the man to whom she owed her own, not only without 
scruple, but with eager and tumultuous joy. When she contrast- 
ed their blood-thirsty demeanor with the noble calm with which 
her guest had confronted it, the question, “ Which was the sav- 
age?” could hardly fail to occur to her, and it could have but 
oue reply. 


178 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


The prince’s behavior in the tent had impressed hei still more 
favorably. Some of the proceedings had necessarily been unin- 
telligible to him, but he knew at least that the result of them 
would be a matter of life or death to him; this, indeed, had been 
clear even to his two attendants, who, directly he made his appear- 
ance, had loyally pressed forward to protect his person. 

“Commit nonviolence,” he had said to them in his own lan- 
guage. “ Whatever happens to me, if I am killed, tell the king, 
my father, not to avenge my death.” And from that moment he 
had remained grave and unmoved, like one who, though on the 
verge of death, has nothing to trouble him, his final dispositions 
having been made. 

Edith, who had learned from him sufficient of the Bredan tongue 
to understand what he said, asked him the reason of it, since it 
was hardly to be expected that her efforts in the direction of re- 
ligious culture could have taught him the sublime lesson of for- 
giveness of injuries. 

“ I told my father not to avenge my death,” he said, “because 
I felt that if I was condemned to die, it would be done under a 
mistake.” The explanation, though highly creditable, appeared, 
considering the simplicity of the speaker, a little subtle; there 
was, moreover, an expression in his face that was new to her, for 
it conveyed for the first time the idea of concealment. 

“ Was that your only reason?” she inquired. 

“No,” was the quiet reply, “I did not want war to occur on 
my account, since if it did so it would set your people’s faces 
against you, because you had been Tarilam’s friend.” 

“ That was very good and thoughtful of you,” said Edith, with 
gentle gravity, and a blush which she strove in vain to repress. 

Tarilam raised his eyebrows; the precautions he had taken for 
her safety had occurred to him so naturally that he was wholly 
unconscious of their chivalry. 

“ When things seemed going against you, prince, and the hor- 
rid men were shouting that you were guilty,” inquired Aunt 
Sophia, a little afterwards — she was curious about the young man’s 
“views,” and given to sounding him when she got him alone — 
“did you feel no fear?” 

He smiled and shook his head disdainfully. 

“But there would be nothing to be ashamed of if you did,” 
she persisted; “death has its terrors even for Christian folk.” 

He opened his large eyes in wonder. 

“When we die in Breda,” he said, “there is no more trouble; 
the Amrac people cannot reach us. The storm may rage upon 
the water, but it does not wake us; we sleep in peace.” 

“But you would have been taken away from those who are 
dear to you — your father, for exami)le.” 

“It would not be for long; my father is Old, and would spoil 
rejoin me.” 

“ And Majuba?” 


WAS IT POSSIBLE? 


179 


“Majuba would grieve,” he admitted, gravely, 

“And would notTEditli grieve also, don’t you think?” 

“ Would it be worth her while? Who is Tarilam?” 

“It was worth her while to risk her life for him when the sailor 
would have shot him,” said Miss Norbury, reproachfully. 

“ Do you suppose I do not remember?” he answered, plaintive- 
ly. “I know a boy who had a tame sea-gull that had broken 
its wing; it got down to the water, and would have been blown 
out to sea and died had he not plunged in after it, though the 
ba}^ was full of sharks. It was a generous instinct, but it was 
not worth while.” 

“But Edith likes you better than the boy his bird.” 

“Do you really think so?” His eyes kindled with eager light. 

“ AVhy, of course. Did you not save her life?” 

“ Ah yes,” he sighed. “ It was because she remembered that.” 
The light went out from his face, his voice took a tone of hope- 
less despondency the meaning of which it was impossible for any 
woman to mistake. 

“My poor prince!” murmured Aunt Sophia to herself, sympa- 
thetically. 

Though a match-maker to the core, she shrank from having 
any hand in such an affair as this; she was not particular about 
the eligibility of a parti, provided that he was “ nice ” in himself, 
and would be likely to make a good husband. If everything 
else had promised well, she might even have been inclined to 
forgive a difference of race in a European, but the notion of an 
inhabitant of Breda, however princely and attractive, however 
chivalrous and unselfish, venturing to lift his eyes to Edith was 
a shock to her. She liked the prince, but it was out of the ques- 
tion that she could give him any assistance as a suitor, even if 
such help could have availed him, which she felt confident it 
could not. A girl that had loved Charles Layton would never 
listen to poor Tarilam. She did not say, even to herself, would 
never stoop to listen, for she was not without appreciation of his 
noble qualities; but the unlikeness of the two men was too pro- 
nounced to admit of her picturing the possibility of the one being 
substituted for the other. She did not understand that, so far as 
that difference affected the matter at all, it weighed with Edith 
in Tarilam’s favor. If there had been anything in him to remind 
her of her former lover in the faintest degree, she would not have 
admitted him to her intimacy. As it was, it never struck her that 
in so doing she was giving him a certain encouragement. He 
could never have found the pathway to her heart which Layton 
had trodden; every step would have disinterred some dead regret; 
but was it not possible that he might reach it by some road of his 
own? He was like some untutored mathematical genius who at- 
tempts a problem in the schools by a method worked out by him- 
self, less direct and less convenient, indeed, than the authori2;ed 
oue, bqt which nevertheless solves it, 


180 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


The consciousness of having done her best for him in the late 
fracas no doubt strengthened Editli’s interest in the young fellow; 
for if we are inclined to hate those we have injured, it is no less 
true that those we have benefited thereby establish a claim upon 
our affections. And yet if it had been suggested to Edith Nor- 
bury that she had even begun to entertain a tender passion for 
Prince Tarilam, she would have denied the imputation with in- 
dignation, though not with the contempt which the idea had 
aroused in Aunt Sophia. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

HALF-MAST HIGH. 

After the social storm which had threatened such damage to 
the little community of castaways, there ensued a cahii in Fay- 
bur. The murder of Mr. Marstou, though its perpetrators re- 
mained undiscovered, produced a very deep effect; and while it 
shocked the majority, veiy literally sobered the malcontents. In 
the latter case perhaps the fear of discovery induced good behav- 
ior in the most of them, but at all events there was no further 
outbreak, either of drunkenness or insubordination. 

The continuance of bad weather still prevented the other na- 
tives of Breda from visiting the island, but the two that had ac- 
companied the prince had made themselves so pleasant and so 
useful as to afford the most lively hopes of concord between their 
fellow-countrymen and the ship’s company. As to Tarilam him- 
self, the falseness of the accusation against him having once been 
admitted, public feeling veered round in his favor, and his gentle 
and genial qualities being thus afforded a fair chance of appreci- 
ation, he became extremely popular. A few only held aloof from 
him— the degraded mate and his three myrmidons, Mellor, Rudge, 
and Murdoch. 

“ If the prince comes to harm through any act of your friends,” 
the captain had informed Mr. Bates, with a vigor of language 
which modern type would be at a loss to reproduce, “ and I fail 
for the second time in bringing the murder home to any one of 
you, as sure as my name is Henry Head I’ll hang you all four ” 
— a warning that had the happiest effect in putting all notion of 
pistolling the prince out of their minds; as to attacking him 
without fire-arms, and in no greater disproportion of force than 
four to one, they had not so much as entertained the idea of it. 
JNIr. Bates never saw Tarilam without a certain swimming of the 
head, produced by the recollection of being held at arm’s-length 
over the precipice where a far worthier life than his own had 
found its end; and the narrative of that experience, told with 
much personal feeling, if without dramatic artifice, had had a 
most wholesome effect upon his three friends. 

I'rom the sentiineiital or Paul and Virginia point of vievv^ thq 


HALF-MAST HIGH. 


181 


attractions of such an island as Faybur were manifest. It was 
quite the place for two young lovers to dwell in, “ the world forget- 
ting, by the world forgot,” till they both died together on the same 
day in each other’s arms; but it did not afford scope enough for 
the energies of upward of a hundred British sailors. There was 
not enough work for them to do, and too little room for pla}". 
They took but limited interest in literature, chiefly from the fact 
that only a very few of them could read. Under Edith’s auspices, 
Tarilam, indeed, had become a better scholar than almost any of 
them except the officers. No one wrote but the captain, who 
kept a journal which he called a log, and which was wooden 
enough to merit its title. Conversation languished in the tents 
for want of a topic. 

Under these circumstances it was only natural that since a mur- 
dered man, whose assassin had never been discovered, was buried 
in the place, that his ghost should occasionally be seen. Ghosts 
are not seen in large towns, but in country places, where monotony 
and some poor substitute for imagination beget them. With the 
trifling exception of the Phantom Ship, which has something pro- 
fessional about it to excuse its appearance, ghosts are only seen 
at sea under the most appropriate circumstances, Ld., in a. dead 
calm. Captain Head felt it to be a bad sign that poor Mr. 
Marston did not rest in the grave which had been dug for him in 
the most beautiful spot on the whole island, but must needs walk 
all over it, and meet the very last men in the ship’s company 
whom he would have chosen to consort with during life. Mellor 
and Rudge had both seen him, and had had fits in consequence. 
It was whispered that Murdoch was in the constant habit of see- 
ing him, though he was very reticent upon the matter himself; 
that Mr. Bates remained in his tent, as obstinately as Achilles, 
after nightfall, for fear of being addressed by his quondam brother- 
officer, albeit, when in the flesh they had not been on speaking 
terms. If the vision had been confined to these scoundrels, they 
might have been welcome to it, but others had seen it, or thought 
they had seen it, and the whole morale of the camp was getting 
endangered by the superstition. The captain, who suspected 
trickery, rather encouraged testimony in order that he might get to 
the root of the matter. One evening William Dean asked for a 
few words in private with him. 

The gunner was known to be a good fellow, though he had been 
carried away by the late whirlwind of indignation aroused by 
Bates against the prince, and was by no means a liar — indeed he 
had not the imagination for it. “ Cap’n,” he said, very gravely 
and respectfully, “ I’ve seen somethink just now.” 

“Very good; I am glad you came to tell me at once,” was the 
sardonic reply; “one likes to have the very latest information 
from the spirit world.” 

“ But I am not sure as he was a spirit.” 

“Oh, this is a new phase. Mr. Marston has come to life again, 
has he?” 


182 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“ It was not Mr. Marston, cap’ll. It was the Malay.’" 

“What do you meau? The man that came over with the 
Bred an folk?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“But they can’t come over in this weather!” 

“ Nevertheless, not half an hour ago, I saw him as sure as my 
name is William Dean.” 

“ Where?” 

“Not fifty yards from the lookout. He seemed to be coming 
away from it, though that could hardly be, as the man on duty 
saw nothing of him.” 

“ Who is the man on duty?” 

“Matthew Murdoch.” 

The captain’s face became very grave. “ Now, just say how it 
happened.” 

“ Well, I thought I would climb up the cliff to have a pipe and 
see how the wind lay; it was falling a bit, and the sea going down 
all round, they told me. When I was within twenty feet of the 
top, or so, there stood a man by himself, who was looking right 
down into the camp. He kept himself behind a bush, but I saw 
him before he saw me, and he was not a white man.” 

“ Why should he not have been one of the prince’s men?” 

“ Because I had left them both below. Moreover, he had only 
a waist-cloth, such as the Malay wore. The sight of him up- 
set me, and I stumbled; the noise made him glance towards me, 
and our eyes met, and the Malay it was, sure enough. He was 
off like a bird, and into the bush in a moment.” 

“ Did you run after him?” 

“ No; I knew it was no good. I went on to the flag-staff; Mur- 
doch had his back to me, but heard me coming. ‘ They are quiet 
enough down there, I suppose,’ he said.” 

“ What did he mean by that?” 

“ Well, I guess he thought I was somebody else.” 

The captain took in all the possibilities at a glance. A spy on 
the island, and Murdoch in traitorous communication with him — 
ambush and massacre. “And when he found out it was you?” 

“ He started a bit; then says I, ‘ I have seen the Malay.’ ‘ What 
Malay?’ he asks, as quiet as could be; and swore nobody had 
been near him since he had come on the watch.” 

“ And what do you think about it, William Dean?” 

“As far as the Malay is concerned, sir, I don’t think about it. 
I am sure of it. As to the other, I don’t wish to get any man into 
trouble, though Murdoch’s no mate of mine.” 

“ Quite right. You can keep a still tongue in your head, I 
know. Now, say not a word to anybody, but send the first mate 
here at once.” 

Mr. Redmayne was now first mate in Mr. Marston’s stead, the 
vacancy caused by Bates’s degradation having been filled up by 
Arthur White, the midshipman. He was but a young hand for 


HALF-MAST HIGH. 


183 


such a place, and indeed there was no one now save Mr. Red- 
rnayne and the surgeon on whose authority and judgment the 
captain could rely. 

Within ten minutes Mr. Redmayne had started, with eight men 
armed to the teeth, to make the circuit of the island to search for 
canoes. 

If the Malay was really in Faybur, he must have come by boat 
in spite of the lieavy weather. Such light vessels as were used 
in Breda could of course be carried up from the shore and hidden 
in the bush, but hardly, unless carried by many hands, without 
leaving some sign of their passage on the sand. To search the 
island itself before daylight was useless. 

A little before midnight the party returned without result. No 
canoe had been discovered; but at the north end of the island, 
opposite Breda, there were indentations in the sand which some 
thought had been caused by the hauling up of a canoe, and others 
not. They were very indistinct, and the question was Avhether they 
had been rendered so by design, or whether the marks were solely 
accidental. The next day the whole island was thoroughly in- 
vestigated by scouting parties, who came upon the distilling ap- 
paratus which had been the cause of so much evil and destroyed 
it; in view of which achievement the expedition could hardly be 
said to have been labor in vain ; but no trace of any alien visitor 
was discovered. Upon the whole, the captain was inclined to 
think that William Dean’s Malay was made of the same material 
as furnished for others Mr. Marston’s ghost; but, like a wise man 
whose motto is “no risk,” he caused the night rounds to be more 
frequent, practised beating to quarters to such perfection that 
every man was at his post in a few seconds, and enacted that two 
men instead of one should always keep watch at the lookout. 

A few days after these arrangements had been made, Mr. Red- 
mayne and Mr. White had the good-luck to come upon what 
would at a sea-side place at home have made the fortune of the 
locality — a bay of shells, or rather a bay of sand beneath which 
lay such a treasure of shells as only a child’s imagination could 
have pictured. They were of all sizes, some of them reaching to 
such proportions that a single one would in our English gardens 
have sufficed for a grotto, and of the most splendid colors. In 
hue, indeed, they resembled nothing so much as those gorgeous sea 
anemone's which line, as with precious stones, the Gouliot caves 
in Sark; or those two brilliant mushrooms which a benevolent 
society has painted for us in colors and labelled “edible,” without 
finding a human being with courage to touch them. 

The two discoverers, though by no means given to “gush” 
over the wonders of nature, were carried by the spectacle into 
unaccustomed regions of speculation. “How strange it seems,” 
observed the newly promoted middy, “that things so marvellous- 
ly beautiful, and so fitted to delight the eye, should be covered 
with sand.” 


184 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


“Depend upon it, everything is ordained for the best,” returned 
Mr. Redmayne, gravely. “Think what a pleasure it will be to 
Miss Edith to discover them for herself! At the same time I 
wish — while Nature was about it — that the bay had been placed 
a little nearer to the camp.” 

It was, in fact, almost at the northern extremity of the island, 
at the very place where Edith had met with such rough treat- 
ment from the distillers, where the cliffs were the most sheer and 
the vegetation most luxuriant. It was nothing of a walk, how- 
ever, to one like herself, in the highest state of vigor, to which, 
thanks to tbe exhilarating climate and her wholesome mode of 
life, one of her sex could attain, and the attractions of the place, as 
Mr. Redmayne had foreseen, were overpowering to her. He him- 
self had piloted her to the spot, where her pleasure at the spec- 
tacle gave him ten times the enjoyment he had experienced when 
beholding it for the first time, but she was never weary of visit- 
ing it, no matter who were her companions. When it was possi- 
ble, however, IVIr. Redmayne always made one of her escort — a 
privilege to which, under the circumstances, he thought he had a 
reasonable claim. The expedition was rather beyond Aunt So- 
phia’s pedestrian powers, and she contented herself with gloating 
over the shelly treasures her niece brought home with her in such 
profusion that their little home soon resembled some haunt of the 
mermaids. 

One morning Edith started for “Shell Bay,” as it was called, 
as usual, accompanied by the prince and the first mate. On their 
last visit a strange bird of uncommon size had been seen hover- 
ing over the spot, and Mr. Redmayne had therefore provided him- 
self with a rifle, peace having so long reigned at Faybur that the 
edict against the waste of gunpowder was in some degree re- 
laxed, At the moment of their departure, however, his presence 
was required in connection with the storage of some dried pro- 
visions; while hardly had he hurried off , when a message from 
the captain, requiring the personal services of the prince in re- 
spect to the yam plantation, which had been established under 
his auspices, took away Edith’s remaining escort. As both her 
companions promised to rejoin her, however, directly the public 
service had been attended to, she saw no reason for postponing 
the pleasure she had promised herself. They could travel, of 
course, much faster than she could, and would probably’ overtake 
her before she reached the bay. The road took her by the look- 
out, where, as it happened, JMurdoch and Mellor were on duty. 
They saluted her respectfully, but she returned the civility with 
coldness and very hurriedly; she distrusted both the men, and 
had a firm conviction that the guilt of Mr. Marston’s murder lay 
at Murdoch’s door. The sight of him was hateful to her, and 
dashed her spirits, though it was so far satisfactory to know that 
his duties for the day would prevent him from coming across her 
on her proposed expedition. Hardly had she passed them when 


THE BLOW-PIPE. 


185 


one of them cried out to the other; she looked back and saw the 
flag descending the staff— a piece of carelessness in him who had 
charge of it which might well have aroused the reproof of his 
companion. Nevertheless she noticed, on surmounting the next 
hill — where she stood still a moment to rest herself — that the flag 
still remained half-mast high, as though the halyards had got 
twisted. 


' CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE BLOW-PIPE. 

The day was a most lovely one even for Faybur, and the sea, 
which had recently been of milder mood, was showing even more 
pronounced signs of calm. In a few days at farthest there would 
be arrivals from Breda; the coming of the king had little interest 
for her, but she looked forward with some excitement to the visit 
from Majuba which Tarilam had promised her, so soon as the 
fine weather should set in. She had a great curiosity, mixed with 
a certain apprehension, to see what Majuba was like. “ I hope,” 
Aunt Sophia had said in her simple way, “that she will not be 
tattooed everywhere, or have feathers in her hair.” 

This was not very likely, but it was not impossible, and Edith 
felt that any trace of savagery in Tarilam’s sister would be a 
shock to her. She was thinking of this, and of matters generally 
connected with her present life, in a manner which some months 
ago would have seemed impossible; the old life had not passed 
away from her, for now and again it returned to her with great 
force and distinctness of regret, but it had been marvellously su- 
perseded by the new. Though so much that had made up what 
we call home was wanting in it, Faybur had become in its way a 
home to her. This was a substitution less difficult to effect in 
her case than in another’s, since what makes home most worthy 
of the name had long been unknown to her; the central figures 
round the hearth in place of father and mother had been those of 
her uncle and her cousin, of whom, dead and gone though they 
were, she could not trust herself to think, because they had been 
her Charley’s enemies. Had any one near and dear to her re- 
mained in England — thus she reflected upon the matter without 
daring to say to herself “ Had Charley been alive ” — this transfer- 
ence of her home sympathies would have been impossible. But, 
in truth, she no longer looked upon this island with alien eyes. 
(It did, in fact, hold all she could be said to love; for though we 
love the dead, it is in another fashion.) Its incomparable scenes 
of beauty, while they still fascinated her, had grown familiar; her 
observation of nature had become extraordinarily acute, though 
it fell far short of that of Tarilam. 8he knew the trees by the 
music which the wind evoked from them, the flowers by their 
perfume, and even the herbs by the fragrance they emitted be- 


186 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


neatli her tread. The sea only was strange to her; it was not 
like that ocean of which slie had had so bitter an experience; 
those unknown islands in the horizon gave it a certain mystery 
from which she shrank. To-day they seemed nearer than usual, 
and Breda, of course, the nearest. She had no wish to visit it; 
the idea of so doing tilled her with vague aversion, which the 
prince, having perceived, had henceforth forbore to speak about 
his home. It was curious that while lie so willingly gave him- 
self up to self-reflection, Edith avoided it; one of the reasons 
which had caused her to welcome so trifling a matter as the dis- 
covery of the shells was that it gave her occupation; she disliked 
being left, as now, to her owui company and her owm thoughts. 
If they reverted to the past, they distressed her; if they concerned 
themselves wdth the future, the}" were equally hopeless, though 
necessarily more indefinite. She preferred to live in the present, 
from day to day, without retrospection and without forecast; a 
state of emotion in direct contrast to that to which she had former- 
ly been accustomed. 

She w"as glad, therefore, since she had not been rejoined by 
either of her late companions, wdien she found herself at her jour- 
ney’s end. It was not much to do, but it was better than think- 
ing, to disinter from their sandy beds those splendid shells, almost 
as valuable in a European mart as precious stones, and ten times 
more beautiful. Of their scientific names — if, indeed, they were 
known to science — she knew nothing, nor the terms applied to 
their formation; she did not even know the difference between 
a crenated and a dentated shell, but she was charmed by their ex- 
quisite loveliness or their imperial splendor. Some w^ere diapha- 
nous, and, being held up to the light, disclosed secret chambers, 
“pavilions of tender green;” others, though opaque, resembled 
pyramids of glowing flame. She was pushing aw'a}" the sand from 
a specimen which struck her as being lovelier than the rest,wdien 
she became aw"are that she was not alone ; two figures wdiicli 
had suddenly emerged from the reef of rock to northward were 
making towards her with great speed. 

In her extreme surprise she made no attempt to escape — which, 
indeed, must have been utterly futile; nor was she very much 
alarmed, since from the look of the men she took them at first 
for the prince’s two attendants; but as they drew nearer she per- 
ceived that, though dressed in similar attire, and probably of 
the same race, they were not the men she knew, and were armed 
with clubs. With noiseless swiftness they ran up and seized 
her arms, and each, placing a hand behind her, began to impel 
her towards the spot from which they came. She neither as- 
sisted their movements nor resisted them, but was borne along 
in silence; the whole transaction seemed to her a kind of hideous 
nightmare, in which she had no volition. As they rounded the 
reef, however, they came face to face with the Malay, whom she 
recognized; while beyond him, some quarter of a mile away, was 


TUE BLOW-PIPE. 


187 


a canoe drawn up on the sand. Then at once it flashed upon 
her that nothing less than her abduction was intended, and she 
uttered a bitter cry of distress and despair. 

It was echoed, or so it seemed, from the top of the cliff— which 
in that farthermost bay was as sheer as the precipice where ]Mr. 
Marston had met his death, though somewhat more closely hung 
with creepers. Down this pathless steep was fluttering some- 
thing winged and white like a bird with a broken wing. She 
scarcely recognized it for what it was, so incredible did it ap- 
pear that any human being should venture to descend that airy 
steep, yet something within her whispered “Tarilam.” She had 
eyes for nothing save that terrible descent, which was apparently 
accomplished in safety. Still, against three men, two of them 
little inferior in stature to himself, what, though he had reached 
the bottom unarmed, could even his prowess effect? She felt 
that he was about to rush towards her, and, unarmed, precipi- 
tate himself upon her captors, two of whom carried darts and 
the Malay a long knife. Then he would be slain before her eyes, 
and the sacrifice of his priceless life would have been made in 
vain. 

No sooner did he touch the ground, however, than he ran like 
an arrow, not towards herself, but in the direction of the canoe. 
A cry of alarm burst from the three men, who perceived his ob- 
ject more quickly than she did, and the Malay and one savage 
darted forward to prevent his carrying it into effect, while the 
other snatched up Edith in his brawny arms and followed after 
them at scarcely less speed. The canoe was much nearer to her 
captors than to Tarilam, and though his swiftness was such that 
he went three feet to their two, they reached it first. As they 
stooped to launch it, however, he was within a few yards of 
them, and, stooping suddenly, took up a huge stone. They drop- 
ped their burden, and the Malay drew his knife from its sheath, 
and the savage a little instrument from his bosom — it was a blow- 
pipe. 

Tarilam made a feint of throwing the stone at them, which 
caused them to jump aside from the canoe, at which he instantly 
aimed it. It struck the frail bark in the centre and shattered it 
to atoms. 

Then he turned back and flew at the man who was carrying 
Edith. The savage put her down, but twisted his hand in her 
long hair, by which he grasped her firmly. He looked at the 
broken canoe and the coming foe and gnashed his teeth ; all 
means of escape were cut off from him, and he read aright in 
the prince’s eyes a sentence of immediate death. Something, 
however, was still left him — vengeance. He raised his club and 
was about to brain his defenceless and half-fainting captive, when 
a sharp report rang out from the cliff-top, and a bullet crashed 
through his brain. He fell, and would have dragged Edith with 
him but that Tarilam’s arm was already round her waist. She 


188 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


clung to him, but he gently untwined her arms, and placed her 
so that his form interposed itself as a shield between her and a 
new danger. At the report of the gun, which, it is needless to 
say, had been thus opportunely tired by Mr. Redmayne, the Malay 
had instantly dashed across the sands into the woods; but the 
remaining savage, while equally recognizing that the fortune of 
war was against him, and even doubtless crediting his enemies 
with supernatural assistance, entertained no thought either of 
flight or submission. A gesture of astonishment at the noise 
and smoke of the rifle, and the fatal effect upon his comrade, 
had been extorted from him for the moment, but he had im- 
mediately recovered his presence of mind, and with malignant 
deliberation was advancing towards the prince and Edith with 
his blow-pipe at his mouth. It seemed strange that such a little 
toy should excite in so dauntless a breast so intense an appre- 
hension as Tarilam now exhibited; not, indeed, on his own ac- 
count, since he so freely offered himself as a mark for it, but no 
hen threatened by hawk ever exhibited a more passionate anx- 
iety to protect her little ones than the prince now manifested to 
screen his charge. His nostrils dilated wdth terror, his bronzed 
face took a hue more near to pallor than would have seemed to 
be possible; he stood like one who sees hovering over his head 
the very angel of death, and listens perforce to the beating of 
her wings. 

Once more the rifle rang out from the cliff-top, but this time 
without effect; it was fired from a lower elevation, but the marks- 
man, in the act of descending by a zigzag route, as quickly as the 
nature of the ground permitted, had not taken so true an aim; 
the savage half turned his head at the report, and on looking 
again towards his intended victims beheld Tarilam within ten 
feet of him, a flying incarnation of rage. The next moment both 
were on the ground, their hands on each other’s throats in a 
death grapple. It did not last long; Edith knew that it could 
not. She watched it with horror, but not, so far as Tarilain was 
concerned, with apprehension; man to man, a struggle with the 
prince she was well convinced could have but one ending. Pres- 
ently he rose, leaving his adversary stretched motionless on the 
ground, and staggered towards her. She flew to meet him, and 
in her turn strove to support his tottering form. “ Has he -wound- 
ed you, my prince?” she cried, with passionate solicitude. 

“No, dear, he has killed me,” he answered, with a smile. 
“Tarilam is swift, but not so swift as an Amrac arrow. The 
woorali poison is in my veins.” 

“Oh, Tarilam, dear Tarilam, what is to be done?” she cried, 
despairingly. “ There must be 5(>m6thing. Think, think! what 
can I do for you?” 

“Kiss me,” he murmured, with exquisite tenderness; “that is 
all I ask. Kiss me, Edie;” and with that he fell fainting on the 
sand. 


IN HOSPITAL. 


189 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

IN HOSPITAL. 

The first mate came hurrying up, as Edith, on her knees upon 
the sand, was covering the brow and cheeks of the unconscious 
prince with kisses. “ He is dying,” she said, with a terrible calm, 
in answer to his look of amazement; “in shielding me from the 
dart he has sacrificed his own life.” 

Mr. Redmayne stooped down and drew forth the little weapon 
which had entered Tarilam’s side, just below the waist. 

“ Such a bodkin as this can never kill a man,” he observed, 
with ill-concealed contempt. 

“ It has been dipped in woorali,” 

Mr. Redmayne uttered no reply, but his face spoke for him. 
He had heard enough of the poison to know that she had pro- 
nounced a sentence of death; his handsome cheek burned with 
shame because he had grudged her kisses to a dying man. He 
looked round for help mechanically, though he felt that all help 
was unavailing. The noise of the gunshots, echoed by the hills, 
had been heard from a great distance, and some sailors were seen 
running towards them; among them the man Rudge was con- 
spicuous; he was in ill-favor with the authorities, both on his 
own account as well as on that of the company he kept, and was 
not wont to show himself useful in any emergency; but now he 
was the first to run and offer his services. 

“It is that scoundrelly Malay who has done this, I reckon, 
sir,” he said, with a glance at the broken boat and the two dead 
savages. 

“Never mind who has done it for the present,” was the of- 
ficer’s cold reply; “the question is, can the mischief be repaired? 
Let the swiftest runner among you go back to camp and fetch 
Mr. Doyle. Bid him bring wine, brand3'-^any spirit with him — 
at once; though, indeed, it is too late, I fear, even as it is.” 

“If any spirit will do, sir,” said Rudge, hesitating, “I have 
something here. It was given me by them as will make no more 
of it, because the ’stillery has been destroyed ; but as it was made, 
I thought it was no harm to keep it, sir.” 

JNIr. Redmayne snatched the bottle from his hands, applied it 
to the mouth of the prince, whose teeth, already closed, he with 
difficulty forced asunder. The crude, strong liquor had an im- 
mediate effect upon the patient, into whose cheeks it had brought 
back the ebbing life. It was a case where brandy could save one 
— at all events, for the moment; and but for that timely draught 
TtP’ilam would certainly have been numbered with the dead, 


190 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


It was strange, as Mr, Redmayne afterwards reflected, that the 
prince should owe his existence to that scoundrel Rudge’s dis- 
obedience to orders and general complicity with evil-doers; but 
to those who are greater observers of human affairs, or more given 
to speculate upon their issues, the circumstance will not perhaps 
appear so abnormal as it did to the first mate of the Ganges. 
Whatever his perplexities, he perceived, however, clearly enough, 
not only that it was no time for reproof and the assertion of dis- 
cipline, but that the offender had earned his pardon for all of- 
fences in the past; and indeed, from that moment, and ever after- 
wards, Mr. Richard Rudge was on the side of “order.” 

Enough men had come up to bear the prince upon a hastily 
formed litter upon their shoulders back to camp, a journey which 
was necessarily tedious, as they had to make the circuit of the 
coast. He complained of the want of air, which seemed surpris- 
ing since a fresh wind was blowing and Edith walked beside him 
fanning him with a huge leaf. She spoke not a word, but kept 
her eyes fixed upon his face lest the expression of a wish should 
escape her. Whenever he opened his eyes, which he did at lon- 
ger and longer intervals, they fell upon her, and when they did 
so his lips never failed to smile. Towards the end of the jour- 
ney, however, these signs of life ceased to manifest themselves. 
As they drew nearer home the tidings of what had happened drew 
many out to meet them, including the captain and the doctor. 
To the former the news of the Malay’s presence on the island and 
of the attack of the savages was necessarily of the gravest im- 
port, but his anxiety on account of public affairs did not prevent 
his feeling the greatest sympathy for the prince and his condi- 
tion. “If he lives. Miss Edith,” he said, vuth deep emotion, 
“we shall all be proud to call him our friend; if, as I greatly 
fear, we are to know him no more, he has died like a man, and 
better than many a Christian.” 

This speech, intended to be comforting, had quite an opposite 
effect on the person to whom it was addressed; not from its ref- 
erence to the probably fatal effect of the prince’s wound, but 
from its patronizing tone. 

In Edith’s eyes, Tarilam would not only die, but had lived 
“ better than any Christian;” for most Christians act only “ up to 
their lights,” whereas he had acted far beyond them. 

Mr. Doyle’s grave look and ominous silence gave her a yet 
deeper pang. 

“ Is there no hope?” she murmured. 

“While there is life there is hope.” he answered; then perceiv- 
ing her young face grow gray in blank despair, he added, com- 
passionately, “the proverb is not quite so comfortless, in this case 
as usual, Miss Edith; the effects of the woorali poison are, it is 
true, almost always fatal, but they are also immediate. An ani- 
mal as tenacious of life even as the bear has been known to be 
killed by it in q, fgw inoments, That the priuce has any life in 


IN HOSPITAL. 


191 


him at all, therefore, proves that the conditions are for some rea- 
son or other more favorable than usual.” 

“Perhaps the poison was not fresh, and therefore less power- 
ful,” murmured Edith, eagerly. 

The surgeon shook his head. “That would make no differ- 
ence. It has been known to be kept for years, and yet retain its 
intense activity.” 

“What is woorali?” inquired Edith, with a shiver of abhor- 
rence; the subject was loathsome to her, but she had a dim idea 
that by encouraging the surgeon’s mind to dwell on it he would 
be more likely to hit on some remedy. 

“ Well, it is a sort of gum resin, or pressed from the plant of 
the same name. Of its effect upon the human constitution you 
may judge from the quantity of alcohol the patient has imbibed 
since his wound without its affecting him, notwithstanding that 
he is wholly unaccustomed to spirituous liquors.” 

“Does he suffer?” whispered Edith. She had scarcely heard 
the surgeon’s words ; her eyes, if she had turned them towards 
him for a moment, had reverted with terrible persistency to the 
wounded man, 

“No actual pain; but he labors under great oppression. The 
poison affects the respiratory organs, and those only. You are 
quite right to fan him. Nothing more can be done till we get 
him home.” 

Tliey got him home at last, where they found everything ready 
for the reception of the patient. Whatever was wanting to Aunt 
Sophia in other places in the way of judgment or discretion, was 
never wanting to her in the sick-room. Well might the two 
women congratulate themselves on having provided for “ hospi- 
tal cases ” in Ladies’ Bay, since they were thus enabled to do the 
best that could be done for one so dear to them. 

When Mr. Doyle had made his examination of the wounded 
man, he sent for both of them. Tarilam was lying on the couch, 
with his eyes clo.sed, and breathing with great difficulty, 

“As you will be my only assistants,” said the surgeon, “it is 
well you should know' exactly what is to be hoped for. If our 
patient dies, it will be literally for want of breath, and we must 
endeavor to supply it artificially. Bring me 3'our ivory bellows, 
3Iiss Edith.” This miniature instrument — utterly useless, of 
course, at Faybur— hung on the wall of the little parlor by way 
of a drawing-room ornament; some school friend had given it to 
Edith “for luck” on one or her birthda^^s, but hitherto, as the 
poor girl had often reflected, very little good-fortune had come 
of it. The time had arrived, however, when she was to have a 
higher opinion of the simple gift. 

“My idea is,” continued the surgeon, “that hy injecting air 
very gently into the nostrils, so as to prevent its reaching the 
oesophagus, and then by applying as gentle a pressure to the chest 
to expel it, we may prolong life till the lungs recover their naL 


192 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


ural functions. That, at all events, is our only chance, and as it 
happens, not all the hospitals in Christendom could prescribe two 
better operators in a matter so delicate than yourselves.” 

The two women listened as though the wmrds of the surgeon 
had been inspired. 

Edith brought the instrument, but her hands trembled so ex- 
cessively that she was unable to follow Mr. Doyle’s instructions; 
Aunt Sophia, therefore, took that task upon herself, while Edith 
applied pressure to the patient’s chest, at regular intervals, as the 
surgeon directed her. It was the same system now in use for 
the resuscitation of the apparently drowned, but which was dis- 
covered long ago by an East Indian surgeon whom Mr. Doyle had 
known, in connection with the curare (or woorali) poison. He 
had himself once before tried it, but without success; but this, of 
course, he refrained from mentioning. In that case he had only 
a pipe wdierewith to inject the air, a service the bellows per- 
formed much better. 

For a long time no result followed from the treatment, which 
was supplemented by the occasional administration of brandy. 
The feeble flame of life thus strangely fed continued still to 
flicker, and that was all; yet, under the circumstances, as the sur- 
geon was well aware, it was a good deal. Looking at the mat- 
ter from a scientific point of view, and judging by precedent 
and analogy, Tarilam ought to have been a dead man. Had 
he eaten a hearty meal just before he had been attacked by the 
poison, there wmuld have been (speaking professionally) an ex- 
cuse for his having survived for a quarter of an hour or so; but 
this he had not done. It was true that his constitution was as 
wholesome and vigorous as ever inhabited the human frame, but 
against the virus of woorali that would have availed as little as a 
linen robe against a rifle-bullet. Had the dart struck him, as it 
had been intended to do, in the chest, or, indeed, anywhere save 
beneath the waist, nothing could have saved him; but his whirl- 
wind rush had disturbed his enemy’s aim, and depressed the 
course of the weapon. The woorali has this attribute, and this 
on\y, in common with snake poison — than wdiich it is far more 
deadly — that if swallowed it is comparatively innocuous; and 
except for the injury effected by the mere passage of the arrow, 
and which would have destroyed nine men out of ten in his 
place, Tarilam was in the position of one who had taken the 
poison internally. 

Every now and then the women intermitted their ministrations 
for an instant, while Mr. Doyle applied his ear to the patient’s 
chest, but the result .was always disappointing. He only shook 
his head and motioned them to go on again ; if it was not an act- 
ual chamber of death, it was next door to it. 

At last Edith looked up and whispered, 

“Mr. Doyle, he breathes!” 

“Do }mu really think so?” he answered, incredulously. 


IN HOSPITAL. 


193 


“ Think so!” As if she had not been listening with ears more 
keen even than the traiaed senses of the surgeon for the least 
sign of returning life! As if, with every gentlest pressure of her 
hand upon his heart, she had not been on the watch for the 
slightest responsive movement! The surgeon’s examination was 
brief, but satisfactory. 

“We have got over the worst of it,” he said, with a great sigh 
of relief, “and shall soon set the poor fellow on his legs.” This, 
of course, except metaphorically, was very far from being the 
case; but from that moment the patient began to mend apace. 
As he did so, curiously enough, Edith Norbury spent less and 
less time in his society. She who had literally hung upon his. 
lips, and had passed hours in restoring life and motion to them, 
now only looked in to ask after his progress; she even left it to 
Aunt Sophia to read to him — a task she had often taken upon her- 
self of old as his instructress. This puzzled the patient, who, 
though by no means complaining, once spoke of the rarity of her 
visits in the presence of her aunt and the surgeon. 

“You should be well content with her, my man,” said Mr. 
Doyle, ‘ ‘ though she were never again to say so much as ‘ flow 
are you?’ for she has been nothing less than the breath of life to 
you.” 

“ That is very true,” he answered, gently. 

The surgeon took it for granted that he had been made aware 
of the particular service Edith had rendered him; but to Aunt 
Sophia, who knew better, Tarilam’s remark was full of signifi- 
cance. 

When the surgeon left, she did not dare to pursue the subject, 
notwithstanding the natural attraction it had for her. She could 
not help feeling for the prince, whom she credited with a hope- 
less passion for her niece, but she had no intention of assisting 
him. That he should entertain such an attachment, indeed, no 
longer shocked her. She almost confessed to herself that the 
devotion he had shown to the girl deserved a reciprocity of affec- 
tion. But, after all, it was out of the question that a girl brought 
up as Edith Norbury had been, with an experience, too, of a ten- 
der passion that had run in the ordinary channel, should “ take 
up” (as Aunt Sophia expressed it to herself) with a man who 
had never been christened, confirmed, vaccinated, or even been 
acquainted with the rudiments of civilization. Edith’s conduct 
since their patient had mended, it was true, was suspicious, but 
it might arise from a motive the very reverse of that which she 
hardly knew whether to fear or hope — the desire to put an end 
to the familiarity which his illness had necessarily engendered. 

His two attendants had been already despatched, at some risk,^ 
in the canoe to Breda, to summon Majuba as soon as the state of 
the weather permitted her to join her brother; and Edith would 
probably be well pleased to see his sister take her place by the 
convalescent. If Tarilam should speak to her upon the matter 
13 


194 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


which she had no doubt was occupying his thoughts, it would 
place her in the most embarrassing position, and to divert his 
mind from it Aunt Sophia began to talk hurriedly of the first 
thing that occurred to her, which happened to be the woorali 
poison. 

“I suppose,” she said, “you knew in what the dart had been 
dipped directly you received your wound?” 

“I knew before it left the blow-pipe,” he answered, smiling. 
“I would have given all I had, directly I saw it, to be like Rob- 
ert Ra}’^ (the boatswain, a man of exceeding bulk), that I might 
have made a shield of myself for Miss Edie.” 

“Then the Bredans use poisoned darts themselves,” observed 
Aunt Sophia, reproachfully. 

“ Some of them,” he said, with a flush. “They know no bet- 
ter,” he added; the excuse he always gave for any custom of his 
people which incurred the disapprobation of the two ladies. 

“I wonder why Providence permits the existence of such a 
dreadful thing as woorali,” observed Aunt Sophia, soliloquizing. 
“It can never intend — that is, countenance — the destruction of 
one’s fellow-creatures by such means. What can be the good of 
it?” 

“It is good for kings,” remarked Tarilam, simply. 

“For kings?” 

“Yes. It is not meet for members of a royal house to grow 
very old, to become dependent upon those about them for the 
smallest service; it brings authority into contempt. When the 
hand can no longer hold the hatchet, nor the eye marshal the war- 
riors, nor the ear listen to the prayer of our people, it is time for 
us to depart. Then the wmorali is good.” 

“ Do you mean to say you kill yourselves?” Tarilam inclined 
his head. 

“It is the same when we are very ill, or when shame or mis- 
fortune overwhelms us. I had a sister who loved an Amrac man ; 
she could not give him up, so she gave up her life. The prick 
of a thorn, thanks to the woorali, will do it. This is our remedy ” 
(he held up a finger on the nail of which was a brown speck of 
infinitesimal size) “in case evil fortune should take us unawares. 
If Tarilam were captured by the Amracs to-morrow, they would 
have only a dead man to boast of. 

“What! Do you actually carry the hateful stuff about with 
you, like a pinch of snuff?” 

Tarilam looked puzzled ; the metaphor was unintelligible to 
him. 

“Enough to cover a thorn’s point only,” he answered, as though 
the crime lay in the quantity. 

Aunt Sophia looked at him with horror, almost with aversion. 
If he had ever had any chance of securing her as his ally in the 
matter next his heart, he had lost it. 


TUE EXECUTION. 


195 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

THE EXECUTION. 

While Tarilam hovered between life and death, strange and 
stirring events were taking place in the island, of which it was 
quite as well that the two ladies, occupied with nursing cares, 
were kept in ignorance. The captain, indeed, had given direc- 
tions that these matters should be carefully concealed from them. 
The solitudes of Faybur, which had never echoed to the cry of 
hound or note of horn, became the scene of a man hunt. Half 
the camp turned out to beat the woods and scour the hills for the 
IMalay. That there had been treachery at work, in which some 
of their own people were concerned, was only too probable, and 
it was felt to be imperative that the man should be taken at once, 
and the whole truth extracted from him. To this end, orders 
were given that no fire-arms were to be employed, and no violence 
used beyond what was absolutely necessary to effect his capture. 

Never had the fair island been so completely investigated; its 
fairy dells and sparkling water-falls, its lustrous bowers and arch- 
ways blossom-hung, were explored with the utmost minuteness, 
but by eyes that brought with them no sense of beauty. All 
were filled with indignation against the wretch who had attempt- 
ed so cruel an outrage against an unoffending girl, and, unpro- 
voked, had brought enemies into their very midst. They moved 
in a long line, like beaters in search of game, that lengthened or 
contracted with the conformation of the island itself, but was 
never so extended as to allow the object of their search to slip 
through them undescried. It was probable that he would be in 
hiding at the northern end, both as being most remote from the 
camp and nearest to any possible help from his Amrac friends, 
wdiich the increasing calm rendered more practicable, though still 
hazardous. 

No precaution, however, was omitted from first to last. As 
the hunters proceeded, their line, closing up in the centre, while 
the flanks which took the bays, where the walking was compara- 
tively easy, pushed forward, took the form of a crescent, and re- 
sembled a huge net the ends of which are being dragged to shore; 
it was impossible that any one thus enclosed could escape. Every 
moment the excitement increased, and each man advanced with 
increased eagerness, in hopes to be the first to set eyes on the man 
whose discovery had now become so imminent. Suddenly, from 
a ravine near the shore, there rang out a pistol-shot. 

“Steady, men, steady!” cried the officers, apprehensive that the 
line should break and the men run in. 

“Who has been hit?” inquired the captain, appealing from a 


196 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


crag-top to a knot of sailors clustered together around some ob- 
ject below him, 

“None of us, sir,” replied a voice; “it is the Malay.” 

“ Who shot him?” 

“Matthew Murdoch.” 

“Disarm that man and tie his hands.” 

Ere the captain could reach the spot his orders had been oTaeyed. 
The Malay was lying on the grass breathing heavily, and bleed- 
ing from a wound in the breast. When he saw the captain his 
face lit up with an eager gleam; it was evident that he wished to 
make some communication to him. He was unable, however, to 
speak. ]Mr. Doyle came up, and, kneeling by his side, applied 
some restorative, 

“ What is it you want to say, my man?” said the surgeon, kind- 
ly; he felt no more good-will towards him than the rest, but he 
knew, which they did not, that he was dying. 

“Murdoch — traitor,” murmured the Malay. 

“You hear that, men?” said the captain, with stern face. A 
hum of indignation rose round the group, which had now grown 
of considerable size, Murdoch stood with a guard on each side 
of him, bound, with a face the color of lead. “It is a lie!” he 
muttered, hoarsely. 

“We will hear you presently; this man’s time is short,” ob- 
served the captain, dryly. “Mr. Doyle will continue the pris- 
oner’s examination.” 

It struck the speaker, ignorant though he was of legal matters, 
that if he should be called upon to punish JMurdoch he ought to 
have no hand in bringing his guilt home to him. 

“In what was Murdoch a traitor?” inquired the surgeon. 
“Tell us the truth, and only the truth.” 

“ Amrac.” 

“It was with his connivance, you mean, that you came over 
here from Amrac with the two natives.” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then it could not have been for the first time. How often 
have you crossed the sea before?” 

“ Two times.” 

“Then the first time you arranged with Murdoch what should 
be done on the second occasion?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Why did you want to carry off Miss Edith Norbury?” 

“ Amrac— goddess.” 

“ You persuaded them that she was a goddess, and that the pos- 
session of her would be of great advantage to them?” 

“Yes.” There was a look of satisfaction in the Malay’s face, 
strange, indeed, to see there at such a time. The intelligence of his 
interlocutor was smoothing away for him difficulties which in his 
condition might well have seemed insuperable. If the inquiries 
were of the nature of “leading questions” there was no one to 


THE EXECUTION. 


197 


object to them on that account. It was justice and not law which 
all had in view. 

“How was it that you and the two Amrac men found out where 
^ to find the young lady?” 

“Murdoch,” answered the dying man, less faintly than before; 
the mention of the name of the man who had shot him seemed to 
lend him vigor. 

“But he could not have told you that on the occasion in ques- 
tion she should have been alone.” 

“ Flag-staff.” 

The surgeon looked round inquiringly. 

“ Who has had charge of the flag-staff this week?” observed the 
captain. 

“Murdoch and Mellor, sir,” replied Mr. Redmayne. 

“Just so; go on, Mr. Doyle,” said the captain, gravely. 

“Murdoch made some signal, did he, by which you were to 
know when the opportunity for carrying out your purpose had 
arrived?” 

“He did.” 

“Was there anything else arranged between you besides this 
particular matter?” 

“ Amrac army— Faybur.” 

“Do you mean that an army from Amrac was to invade the 
island?” 

“Yes.” 

There was a cry of smothered rage from the whole assembly. 
Every one glanced at Murdoch, and some of them pointed at him 
menacingly with their cutlasses. 

“Steady, men, steady!” cried the captain, but his voice failed 
for once to restore order. 

“He would have had us butchered by the savages!” cried one. 
“Let him hang at the yard-arm!” cried another. 

“Silence, men !” cried the captain, imperiously, “unless jmu 
would have me believe there are more mutineers than one among 
you. Proceed, Mr. Doyle. We are wasting precious time.” 

They were indeed. The dying man was almost at his last gasp. 

“Was there any one on the island besides Murdoch,” inquired 
the surgeon, speaking even more distinctly than before, “ who was 
assisting you in your designs?” 

“Yes.” 

A movement of sensation pervaded the crowd. 

“ What were their names?” 

There was no answer. 

The mental powers of the dying man, it was plain, were leaving 
him fast; the effort of framing words foreign to his tongue was 
too much for him. “ Look around and tell us whether there are 
any traitors here besides the man you have mentioned.” 

The Malay cast his filmy eyes around him. The spectators 
shrank from that faltering and feeble gaze; if there were any that 


198 


A PEINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


had cause to fear it on their own account, it is probable that, alive 
to such a contingency, they had withdrawn themselves* out of 
sight. At all events, his gaze failed in finding what it sought. 
The Malay’s head fell back, and the eyelids closed. Then once 
again his inouth opened. “ Murdoch— Murdoch!” he murmured, 
hoarsely; and over his stiffening face there swept a vindictive 
scowl, which settled down on it in death. 

By the captain’s orders they dug a hole in the sand in the neigh- 
boring bay, and buried him there by the side of the two natives of 
Amrac who had shared his enterprise and his fate. Then they 
returned home with their prisoner; the captain, with bent head and 
thoughtful face, gloomily leading the way and giving the time to 
the rest of the party, which, as some of those who composed it 
whispered to themselves, resembled a funeral march. 

Arrived at the camp, the sentinels were summoned from their 
posts by the boatswain’s whistle, and the captain, looking very 
grave and grim, addressed the whole assembly, the prisoner, with 
his hands still bound, standing within a few feet of him, his eyes 
fixed upon the ground. 

In a low but distinct voice the captain narrated, for the benefit 
of those wdio had not been present, all that had just happened, 
dwelling with great particularity upon the Malay’s statements. 
“That man,” he said, “was not bound to us by any community 
of race or creed; he was not of ourselves; he w^as our enemy, it is 
true, and intended, by his own showing, to bring destruction upon 
us by the hands of cruel and savage men; he would have carried 
away by force an innocent girl, from whom none of us has re- 
ceived anything but kindness, and surrendered her to a fate worse 
than death among barbarians. That was not his intention, per- 
haps, but failing, as she would necessarily have failed, as the pos- 
sessor of the supernatural powers they looked for, she would 
sooner or later have become their victim. For this he has paid, 
and justly paid, with his life. Still, he was not a traitor — as this 
man is.” 

Here the speaker paused, and a hoarse murmur of hate and rage 
broke forth from the throng. 

The captain held up his hand, and shook his head. 

“The man is here for judgment,” he cried, “but not for vio- 
lenee; he shall be punished, but not a finger of yours shall harm 
him, nor a drop of his blood be laid at your doors. I have no 
more doubt than the sun is shining that Matthew JMurdoch plot- 
ted our ruin with that man; how or where I know not, though 
some of you — I would fain hope a very few — have cognizance of 
that matter. Let them beware for the future, for, so help me 
Heaven, I will spare none of them. I say that this man is guilty 
there is not a shadow of a doubt. Why was it that when he went 
to seek the Malay this man, contrary to orders, took a pistol 
with him? It was with the object— which he carried out— of 
shooting the man down before he should divulge the secret of 


THE EXECUTIO?^. 


199 


their confederacy. Fortunately, however, he lived to do so. We 
have heard from his dying lips that Murdoch was the accomplice 
of his villany; that, while on duty, he used that very flag yonder, 
which has been planted in the feeble hope of helping us to regain 
our home and friends, to further his traitorous designs. In almost 
all crimes there are some mitigating circumstances, but here I can 
see none ; in almost all criminals there is something to be said for 
them, but not for this man. What is his record since he came 
among us? He was the first to break the law that we had made 
for our protection in the matter of the liquor casks. He was one 
of the few who set their wicked wits to work to undo what we 
had done for the common good by distilling spirits. And now he 
has betrayed us. A mutineer, a drunkard, and a traitor, what 
good can be hoped for in such a wretch? What evil may not rea- 
sonably be expected? If he plots against an innocent girl, if he 
joins hands with savages to bring war and ruin upon you, his 
comrades, what good, I ask, can be left in him? Let him alone, I 
say; leave him to justice. Olflcers, draw your swords.” 

The crowd, goaded to fury less by the catalogue of his crimes 
than by the recital of his conduct towards themselves, were on 
the point of running in upon the prisoner. It needed all the 
efforts of the two mates and of the midshipmen to restrain their 
fury. 

“ I do not recall these things,” continued the captain, “ to arouse 
your wrath, but to justify my own action. You have elected me 
to be your chief; it is my duty to see that our little community 
is not further endangered by the presence of this scoundrel among 
us. Moreover, he has committed murder.” 

“Yes, yes; it was he that killed Mr. Marston, ” cried several 
voices. 

‘ ‘ If so, that is a matter for which he will have to account before 
the Great Judge,” said the captain, solemnly. “We ourselves 
have no proof of it. With our own eyes we saw him shoot the 
Malay. As mutineer, as traitor, as murderer, I doom you, Mat- 
thew Murdoch, to death.” 

The word was followed by a pistol-shot fired by the captain 
himself. Matthew Murdoch leaped into the air and fell on the 
sand — a dead man. 

Prepared as was the crowd for the sentence, the catastrophe 
took them by surprise. There was a moment of “ hushed amaze,” 
which the chief actor in the terrible scene perhaps took for dis- 
approval. 

“His blood is on my head,” exclaimed the captain, “and not 
on yours.” 

“ You have done quite right, sir; if you had not done it we 
should have done it ourselves.” 

“ Shooting was too good for him,” cried many voices. 

“ Is the man dead, Mr. Doyle?” asked the captain. 

“ Yes, sir.” 


200 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


“Then God forgive him, and me also, if I have done wrong in 
killing him. Let him be buried with all decency, but at once.” 

Deeply moved, the captain turned towards his tent, the men 
making way for him bareheaded in token of the sympathy they 
felt for him. This feeling, however, was not absolutely univer- 
sal. On the outskirts of the crowd two men were discoursing 
together in a low tone upon what had occurred. 

“A deuced high-handed proceeding, that,” observed Mr. Bates. 

“Better to keep that opinion to ourselves, however,” replied 
Mellor, cautiously. “If our mates here knew what Murdoch 
knew, the whole pack would turn on us and tear us to pieces. We 
maybe upsides with them, however, one day yet.” 

Mr. Bates shook his head and ground his teeth. 

“No, we can do nothing in that way now without the Malay. 
But I’ll be even with Captain Henry Head if I have to wait for a 
twelvemonth. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 
“yes.” 

It was npt till the day after the execution (if such it could be 
called) of Matthew Murdoch that the two ladies were informed of 
its occurrence, and it made a profound impression upon them. 
They were not only shocked at the fact itself, and th*e depth of 
depravity that it revealed in the criminal, but it seemed to re- 
veal to them an abyss of lawlessness and license, hitherto un- 
dreamed of, and on the verge of which they saw themselves 
standing. They recognized for the first time that the kindness 
and respect with which they had been invariably treated by the 
sailor must. — in some instances, at least — have been feigned; and 
even in others where there had been no feigning, how much of it, 
they now began to wonder, was to be set down to the influence of 
an authority which itself was built on but slender foundations. 
The captain and his officers were, they knew, as true as steel; but 
supposing that the communit}^ which had invested them with com- 
mand should be induced, by whatever means, to deprive them of it! 
What all women desiderate is a natural protector, and these wom- 
en, who stood in- so much more need of one than most, had none. 
They were not alone in the world, but worse— alone and out of 
the world, where the forces of civilization cease to act in their 
favor. Their present was insecure, their future was pregnant 
with danger. If Murdoch's treachery had been successful,' what 
might now have been Edith’s fate! There was only one person 
to whom they could look for certain and lasting aid. In Prince 
Tarilam they had both the utmost confidence; the affectionate 
regard they felt for him was, they knew, fully reciprocated, and 
he had a nation at his back. But what a nation! Where his 
strength lay, lay also his weakness. Welcome and attractive to 


201 


“yes.’’ 

them as was the prince himself, the two ladies shrank from all 
connection with his belongings; the young midshipman’s account 
of his friends in Breda, though intended to be eulogistic, had 
been far from captivating them. They had great misgivings even 
concerning Majuba, of whose arrival they were in hourly expec- 
tation, and what they had heard of her fellow-countrywomen was 
by no means to their advantage. 

Aunt and niece did not discuss these matters in so many words, 
but they knew what was passing through each other’s minds in ref- 
erence to them almost as well as if they had done so. Narrowed 
as their lives had become, there was no room for reticence. Hav- 
ing exhausted the sad subject of public affairs, “ Do you think 
that Tarilam will leave us now he is getting better, Edie?” in- 
quired Aunt Sophia, hesitatingly. 

“ Leave us!” returned Edith, with much surprise, “why should 
he leave us?” 

“Well, when his sister returns— and I don’t suppose she will 
stop here long — he will wish, I suppose, to return to Breda with 
her.” 

An expression of pain came into Edith’s face; any allusion to 
Breda was distasteful to her; her companion, however, mistook 
the cause of her distress. 

“ We shall miss him dreadfully, shall we not?” she continued. 
“ He is certainly very nice. What a charming disposition he has; 
what tenderne.ss and what unselfishness!” 

“ Yes,” replied Edith, thoughtfully — 

“ ‘ ITow young he seems in the old age of Time, 

How green ill this gray world.’ ” 

“ I forget where the lines come from, but he always recalls them 
to my mind.” 

“Poor fellow!” murmured Aunt Sophia, pityingly. 

“ It was significant that Edith did not ask why her compan- 
ion pitied him, but maintained a thoughtful silence. The other 
did not break it, but presently left the room with noiseless step 
to attend upon her patient — if, indeed, he could any longer be 
called so. 

More than half an hour passed by, during which the girl never 
altered her position, her elbow on the window-sill, and her face 
fixed on the cliff, which stood up sheer in front oLher. The room 
was very small and at the back of the house, the larger parlor, 
with its splendid sea- view and plentiful supply of air, being now 
given up to the sick man. There was nothing in the prospect to 
divert her reflections, Avhich, indeed, would not have been easy to 
disturb. At one time she thought she heard a distant shouting 
and some stir in the neighboring camp, but it did not excite her 
interest. There are times when the world without, with all its 
goings on, seems of no account, and nothing seems real save our 
own dreams. Suddenly, hoAvever, she became conscious that the 


202 


A TRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


door had been softly opened and closed. Aunt Sophia, then, had 
returned after her visit, and had doubtless found matters pro- 
gressing favorably, as was expected. As she did not, however, 
take her seat, and set to work with her needle as usual, Edith 
glanced over her shoulder with a look of mild surprise, which in- 
stantly altered to one of extreme astonishment. 

Standing in the centre of the little room, with her hands folded 
in front of her, her eyes downcast, and an expression on her face 
of reverential admiration, stood a most beautiful girl. She was 
dressed in flowing robes of white, which were prevented from 
contrasting too sharply with her bronzed and glossy complexion 
by the intervention, wherever they met the skin, of wreaths of 
scarlet flowers. In her jet black hair there was indeed but one, 
but around her neck and wrists there was a profusion of them; yet 
such was the good taste of their arrangement that so far from 
their causing her to resemble the May-day queen, they had all 
the grace of ornament. What struck Edith most, however, in the 
appearance of this beautiful apparition was her extraordinary re- 
semblance to the prince; except for her deficiency in height and 
length of limb, she might have been Tarilam masquerading in 
girl’s clothes. 

“ I need not ask who you are,” said Edith, gently, as she rose 
and welcomed the new-comer; “your likeness to 3^our brother 
assures me that you are Majuba.” 

As she uttered her name, the princess fell on her knees, and 
seizing Edith’s hand in both her own, covered it with kisses. 
Though there was nothing abject in this demonstration of grati- 
tude, it was nevertheless embarrassing. 

“I cannot help thinking,” said Edith, smiling, “that though I 
have recognized you, you have made some mistake in me. I have 
done nothing, I fear, to merit — ” 

It was probable that her visitor had but a limited understanding 
of the words addressed to her, but their meaning was borne in 
upon her at once. 

“ I have seen him,” she interrupted, with simplicity. “Tari- 
lam has told me all about his darling.” 

It was only too obvious to Edith that the term was one which 
the prince must have assigned to herself without any thought of 
its repetition, anfl that his sister simply used it in default of any 
other appellation of affection; there was nothing for her, however, 
but to ignore it 

“ Then he told you that I owe him my life,” said Edith, stead- 
fastl3^ 

Majuba looked puzzled, and smiled with open lips. “ He told 
me that 3mu saved him two times,” she explained — “ once from 
the thunder-gun, and once in the council of the warriors.” 

“Nay, it was Tarilam who saved me, first from the shark and 
afterwards from the Amrac arrow.” 

“ Yes, and from the arrow,” persisted the princess. “ He told 


203 


t ' 


‘‘yes.” 

me that you gave him life.” Then suddenly she added in a whis- 
per, but with tenderest emphasis. “ Yet, what is life, my darling, 
without love?” 

Edith blushed from brow to chin. “ I do not understand you, 
Majuba,” she said, coldly. 

The princess shook her shapely head and sighed. “Oh yes, 
you understand me. The language of the heart is common to all; 
even an Amrac girl knows when love is speaking to her. What 
good is it to have saved Tarilam before the chiefs with your 
tongue, if you say ‘ No ’ with your tongue afterwards, and kill 
him?” 

“ Majuba, you give me pain,” said Edith, gravely. “ It is im- 
possible that your brother could have told you to speak to me 
thus.” 

“ He never did. Why should there be words between us? Am 
I not his sister? I can read his heart, as you can read the books,” 
and she placed her hand on one that lay near to her. 

“And how is it you talk about reading books and speak the 
English tongue so well?” inquired Edith; the girl’s proficiency, in 
truth, astonished her exceedingly ; but her question was suggested 
less by curiosity than by the desire to get away from the^ topic 
that had been so unexpectedly forced upon her. 

“ Deltis taught me,” answered Majuba, simply, “ and since he 
went away I have had the interpreter for my tutor.” 

A thought passed through Edith’s mind that Master Conolly’s 
teaching might have been of a sentimental character and had put 
ideas into the head of this child of nature which would otherwise 
have been foreign to it. 

“I am afraid" Deltis sometimes talks nonsense, Majuba.” 

“ He talks as the bird sings; it is pleasant to hear him. Tari- 
lam, too, used to be happy like the birds; now his heart is sore, 
and his speech is sad.” 

“ He has been ill,” said Edith, gently; “ the poison has injured 
him. I have nursed him when he knew not what he said.” 

“Tarilam knows now,” returned the girl, decisively. “He 
loves you.” 

“He does not; or if he does it would make my heart sore to 
hear it.” 

“That is what he told me,” rejoined the other, simply. Tari- 
lam would never speak his thought to you; that is why I have 
come to speak it for him.” 

“Then you come in vain, Majuba; it is useless.” A film of 
sorrow fell like a veil on the girl’s pleading face; the tears were 
very near her eyes, but she controlled herself by a strong effort. 
She seemed to be collecting all the scanty stores of argument that 
lay in her artless mind. 

“Breda is so strange to you,” she said, laying one forefinger 
upon the other, like one who is checking off adverse chances; 
“ we are very rude and ignorant. We must seem to you as the 


204 


A PRINCE OE THE BLOOD. 


people of Amrac seem to us; alas! alas! we are but savao^es; it 
would be, you would say, to stoop too much.” 

“Nay, nay, I am sure you are no savage, Majuba,” put in 
Edith, earnestly, “nor Tarilam either. You shall be my sister, 
and he shall be my brother.” 

Majuba shook her head decisively, as though to dismiss that 
arrangement as altogether insufficient and unacceptable. 

“Listen, my darling,” she said. “In Breda there is a district 
which is taboo' save to people of the royal blood. No one comes 
thither without our permission. We are as much alone there, 
when we wish to be so, as though we were in another world. 
Did not Deltis speak to you of it?” 

Edith signified that he had done so. 

“My brother has only to speak and the king, our father, will 
make you taboo like ourselves. Tarilam will marry you and you 
shall live alone with him in a world of your own.” 

Edith shook her head. 

“Or, if you prefer Faybur,” continued Majuba, eagerly, “ and 
the society of your own people, Tazilam will stay here. There 
is nothing he will not do, or which he will not leave undone, to 
win you. If you knew him as I do, my darling,” she added, 
with a touch of pride, “it would not be to stoop so very far.” 

“It is not Majuba,” answered Edith, greatly moved. 
“There are other reasons, believe me, which make what you 
have in your mind a thing impossible.” 

The princess answered nothing, but with a quick movement 
plucked the blossom from her brow, and all the flowers from her 
neck and wrists, and flung them in a heap upon the floor. 

“Hush! he is coming,” she said. The door opened and ad- 
mitted Tarilam. His step was slow and his limbs trembled; he 
had lost flesh during his illness, and his face was worn. He 
glanced at Edith, and then at his sister. “Leave us, Majuba,” he 
said, in a broken voice. The girl cast one look of tenderest ap- 
peal towards Edith, and obeyed him without a word. 

“I am come to say good-by,” he murmured in faint tones. 
“ My father has come for me,” 

“But you are not yet fit to go,” she answered, gravely. “You 
must get well and strong first.” 

“ Why?” 

The simple monosyllable had a pathos in it which the other in 
vain attempted to ignore. It seemed to say, “ Why should I get 
well? What is there now left for me to live for?” 

“That is a foolish question, Tarilam. Sick people must get 
well before they leave the hospital. Ask the doctor or Aunt 
Sophia.” 

“Aunt Sophia says that since you can never care for me, it 
will be better that I should go.” 

“Aunt Sophia had no right to say that/’ said Edith, quickly. 
It was well enough that she should decide for herself against tak- 


205 


“ YES.” 

ing this man for her husband, but she resented its being decided 
for her; it was a matter altogether for her own Judgment. 

“ Was she wrong?” cried Tarilam, eagerly. Then his face fell 
and his voice faltered. “But no, I had forgotten Majuba,” 

Edith looked at him inquiringly. “My sister has been plead- 
ing for me, has she not?” he continued, gently; “ she threw away 
her flowers in sign that her prayers had been unanswered. It is 
no wonder. Tarilam has been too presumptuous; forgive him.” 

He held out his hand with a sad smile. It was not to wish 
her good-by, but, as she well understood, in token of amity, with 
which he always associated that unfamiliar act. She hesitatingly 
. gave him her fingers, which he lightly held in his own without 
clasping them. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, “there is nothing in 
your proposal which is presumptuous.” Pier tone was thought- 
ful, and gave the impression — or rather would have given it to 
any one better acquainted than her companion with the English 
tongue — of carefulness, of weighing her words. She was not 
greatly agitated by the peculiar circumstances of her position; 
it had been too long and too often reflected upon for that. 

Pie looked at her with mild surprise unmixed with hope. 

“If it be not that Tarilam lies there” (he pointed to the 
ground). “and that you are yonder” (he pointed upward), “ what 
is it that keeps us asunder?” 

“ The knowledge that I do not love you as you deserve.” 

“Tarilam has no deserts. A very little love would suffice him.” 

“But alas! I have no love to give you at all. It is all gone, 
sunk in the depths of the sea yonder.” 

“ Deltis told me of that,” returned the prince, softly, and with 
a reverential inclination of his head. “Death has taken from 
you the man you loved, and no one can fill his place. When one 
goes out in our canoes in a storm, it is disastrous to lose the 
paddle; the hand is but a poor substitute, yet it is something. I 
know that I should be but the hand. You would never love me 
as you loved the other. It is not to be expected. Tarilam would 
be content with less than that,” 

There was no answer. Edith’s hand still lay on his own; her 
silence encouraged him to press it a little. “As to him whom 
the sea has taken, I know I can never be his rival. He will al- 
ways have the first place in your heart. I say again, it is but to 
be expected. Only in one thing I shall not be his inferior.” 

She smiled faintly. 

“ What! You think that impossible even in one thing?’ No, 
Edie, it is not, for however he loved you he cannot love you 
more than I do; in that I shall be at least his equal. You loved 
him very much, and you will love me only a very little; yet my 
love for you will always be as great as his. It is worthy of you, 
though I am not. I will not wrong it, therefore, by saying, take 
my love such as it is; will you take me such as I am?” 


206 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Her reply was almost inaudible. If it could be said to be an 
acceptance of his offer at all, it was one which seemed to adopt 
his own self-depreciating conclusions. Edith sighed rather than 
said “Yes.” That modest realization of his hopes seemed, how- 
ever, amply to suffice for him; he drew her towards him gently 
and with infinite tenderness, and kissed her forehead. It was 
less like a betrothal than the sealing of some compact agreed 
upon indeed by both parties, but in very different degrees of 
acquiescence. 


CHAPTER XXXVHL 

FAMILY TIES. 

Tarilam stood for a while in silence, looking at liis betrothed 
with grateful, wondering face, like one who cannot believe in his 
own happiness. 

Then, when she did not speak, but only looked thoughtfully 
before her, like one who reflects on something she has done, and 
already half repents of it, he said, softly, “If there is anything at 
an}-- time that I can do to make you happy, be sure it shall be 
done, Edie. If, because I am dull and rude, I cannot guess any 
wish of yours, as at this moment, I entreat you to let me know it. 
If you fear that the expression of it will hurt my feelings, dismiss 
that fear. If you cannot love me yet, as I hope you will do some 
day, at least trust in me.” 

“I am thinking, Tarilam,” said Edith, slowly, acknowledging 
this artless and devoted speech by a fleeting smile, “ that for the 
present I would wish what has just passed between us should be 
kept secret. ” 

“It shall remain where it is — in Tarilam’s breast”— he an- 
swered, touching it, “till you give him leave to speak of it.” 

“No; that would be impossible,” said Edith. “Aunt So- 
phia must know, and Majuba— they have earned the right to 
know.” 

Here she paused. What she wanted to convey was that she 
wished Tarilam to abstain from making any change in his be- 
havior towards her till such time as she should think proper to 
make their engagement public. It was only due to her aunt and 
jMajuba, as she had said, that they should be admitted to her 
confidence; nay, it was certain indeed in any case that they would 
soon discover for themselves what had happened; but with re- 
spect to all others outside of Ladies’ Bay it would be possible to 
keep it secret. So far from being ashamed of her lover, she was 
proud of him; she knew that his nature was as noble as his in- 
telligence was keen; that his mind was as full of grace and beauty 
as were his form and features; but she shrank from what those 
of her own race, his inferiors, would say of this matter. In this 
there were many parallels to her own case; a daughter of some 


FAMILY TIES. 


207 


house of Mammon who falls in love with a poor poet or painter 
may hold him far above her own kindred in everything that con- 
stitutes merit, and 3’-et be conscious of the disdain they feel for 
him, and recoil from the expression of it; and all the more be- 
cause she perceives it, from their point of view at least, to be not 
wholly unreasonable. That, sooner or later, all the companions 
of her exile must become aware of her engagement was obvious; 
but there was no need for its immediate publicity. In due time 
she would tell the captain; but as for the rest, they might very 
w^ell be left to find it out for themselves. Master Conolly, though 
he had great claims on her regard, was much too volatile to be 
intrusted with such a secret; while, as to Mr. Ainsworth and the 
doctor, and Mr. Redmayne — • 

“ May I tell the king, my father?” inquired Tarilam, gently, in- 
terrupting these reflections. 

The question, though under the circumstances a most natural 
one, filled her with dismay. In the prince’s company she often 
found herself forgetting that he was a prince, and still less did 
that fact suggest itself now that he had become her lover. As to 
the monarch of Breda (though at that moment he was, as it hap- 
pened, under her very roof), he had for the time been utterly left 
out of her calculations. So altogether different was the young 
fellow from his parent, that she seldom associated the one with 
the other. And yet this amazing personage was about to become 
her father-in-law. To tell him what had taken place was in all 
probability to tell everybody; as to the Bredans generally, it was 
indeed of small consequence. If he approved of it they would 
receive the news with blowing of conch-shells, and if otherwise, 
with some equally simple manifestation of disapproval; but that 
her own people should first hear it from such a source would be 
a circumstance very distressing to her. 

Tarilam scanned her face while these thoughts passed through 
her mind as a mariner scans the skies, but with a less fallible 
judgment, because he had love to guide him. 

“The mouth,” he said, “of our kings in Breda is elosely shut; 
matters of peace and war they discuss with their chiefs, but things 
which concern the royal house are kept to themselves. When 1 
have said to him, ‘Father, I pra^’’ you not to do this,’ never has 
it been done. He has been veiy good to me all my life, and de- 
nied me nothing save what would have been harmful. The good 
of his people is, as it should be, nearest to his heart, but after that 
comes his son. I owe to him all that I possess of good. I should 
like to tell him — if I might — how happy you have made his son.” 

“ It is only reasonable,” she answered, gently, “ But how can 
you be sure, Tarilam, that the news will please him?” 

He looked at her with an undisguised amazement that spoke 
more plainly than the most extravagant expression of admiration. 
“My darling, has he not seen 3^011?” A reply which certainly 
deserved the smile with which Edith received it. 


208 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“ He will not now insist upon your returning to Breda, will 
he?” she inquired. It was but a feeble specimen of that banter 
which lovers are wont to use to each other, but Tarilam appreci- 
ated it to the full. 

“ He will insist on nothing, dearest,” he answered, fondly. '' It 
was only because I had been ill that he suggested my returning 
home, and he will perceive at once that the air of Faybur is, under 
the circumstances, much more suitable to my ailment.” 

“ Is he really so kind?” said Edith, naively. 

You shall judge for yourself. He is waiting for me in the 
next room. May I tell him?” 

A faint smile gave him the permission he sought, and with a 
grateful glance at her he left the room. 

Never surely did wooer meet with such reluctance from one 
who had promised to become his bride or bore it with more pa- 
tient tenderness. Tarilam well understood, however, that this 
did not arise from any doubt of his devotion, or from the ab- 
sence of at least reciprocal regard. He had, in fact, the same '* 
difficulty to deal with that exists in so many similar instances, 
namely, the “incompatibility” which so often exists between the 
object of a man’s choice and his own relations; only in his case 
the matter was aggravated in an unusual degree. It is not civili- 
zation, or even education, which renders intelligible to us the feel- 
ings of other people when antagonistic to or out of accord with 
our own, but an absence of egotism and a natural love of justice. 
Tarilam was gifted with both these virtues, and therefore in no 
way resented Edith’s disinclination for his people. On the other 
hand, it was impossible, in his ignorance of the prejudices of race 
and creed, that he could thoroughly understand her position, and 
far less those objections which she well knew would be raised by 
others. However well her countrymen got to know him, nay, 
even should they recognize the virtues wliich she had discerned 
in him, the consciousness of the source from which he sprang 
would, she felt, be never absent from their minds or cease to cast 
its shadow. 

It was doubtful if even the loyalty of Aunt Sophia would 
stand the strain that the news of her engagement would put upon 
it. To her, above and before all, she owed the revelation of it, 
but it had so come about that she was about to make it in the first 
place to another, and him the very last she would have chosen to 
be its recipient. It could not be said that Edith Norbury re- 
pented of what she had just done, but she recognized in that mo- 
ment of suspense and embarrassment, the commencement of an 
endless chain of similar situations. 

Then the door opened and disclosed the Bredan king. With 
noiseless step, and a certain tender dignity, he moved to where 
she stood, and laid his strong hands lightly upon each of her 
shoulders. She looked up, without shrinking, into his face, on 
which there was a smile that well became it. 


FAMILY TIES. 


209 


“ Good, good,” he said. “ My son has chosen well, and Taril is 
happy.” 

Edith drooped her eyelids and murmured something, she knew 
not what; and when she raised them again the king had gone, 
and in his place stood Aunt Sophia with out-stretched arms, into 
which she flew like a bird to its nest. 

“Don’t cry, don’t speak, dear Edie,”she whispered, tenderly, 
as she clasped her close; “only feel that you have done as I 
would have had you do, and are dearer to me than ever.” 

It was an observation open to some cavil as an expression of 
cordial congratulation, but nothing more welcome to Edith’s ears 
could possibly have been uttered. She did not need felicitations, 
but approval. 

“I really do love him. Aunt Sophy,” she sobbed. 

“ Of course you do, my pretty one,” put in the other, quickly; 
“only not quite so much, you were going to say, as he loves you. 
The thing is not possible. Any man so devoted I never saw. If 
he had his will, your life would be one rose-leaf without a crum- 
ple. You should have heard him impress upon that dear old 
king that he was not to stay more than two minutes with you. 
He is a queer father-in-law, it cannot be denied, but I am sure he 
will be a very kind one ; and you’re never to see him, nor any 
friends of the family, unless you please — a most exceptionally 
favorable arrangement, you must confess. Then, as for Majuba, 
she is quite an acquisition to us, and I believe will really be a 
comfort to you. She lives only for Tarilam, and Tarilam lives 
only for you, so that you are the mistress of the whole situation. 
Upon my word, dear, all things considered, I think you are a very 
lucky girl ; I do, indeed. Under the circumstances, I think you 
have done the very best thing you could have done for yourself, 
and the right thing. ” 

“That last should have come first, Aunt Sophy,” said Edith, 
with a faint smile. “ It is only natural, however, that yoM should 
think I stand in need of some excuse.” 

“That was not my meaning, dear; no, I think you have done 
right independently of all expediency, and I am sure that will be 
Captain Head’s view and Mr. Ainsworth’s. What a fortunate 
thing it was, by-the-bye, that Mr. Ainsworth’s life has been pre- 
served to us!” 

The color flew to Edith’s pale face. “I hope you will not 
speak to Mr. Ainsworth or any one else at present of — of what 
has happened,” she said, earnestly. 

“Very good, dear ; since you do not wish it, I certainly will 
not,” replied Aunt Sophia ; it was a serious blow to her to be 
prevented from telling such news, under circumstances where 
even tlie smallest gossip had a fancy value; “of course you are 
the best judge of your own affairs, but will it be quite fair as 
regards other jicople?” 

“ What people?” 

U 


210 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


“ Well, of course there is no obligation; you have a right to do 
as you please; but it would be more merciful to somebody to put 
him out of his misery at once. Of course, I have always known 
that he had no chance; but I am afraid he still clings to hope.” 

“ I really do not know who it is you are talking about.” The 
tone of the speaker was incisive and displayed unmistakable an- 
noyance. 

“ Well, of course, I meant Mr. Redmayne,” returned Aunt So- 
phia, apologetically. 

“Then you had no right to mean him,” was the quick reply; 
“he has never addressed a single word to me which could be 
even construed as you suggest; I have never regarded him other- 
wise than as a friend.” 

“ I am quite sure you have not, dear,” replied the other, hum- 
bly; “but still I thought you must have known — that is, sus- 
pected — ” 

“I have suspected nothing of the kind,” interrupted Edith; 
“my thoughts have never concerned themselves with any such 
matter.” 

It was possible that in so speaking the speaker “did protest- 
too much ;” it is doubtful whether any woman is quite uncon- 
scious of the admiration she excites in a man with whom she 
is familiar enough to call him friend ; but Edith w'as certainly 
speaking truth as regarded any reciprocity of affection upon her 
own part. Upon the whole, however, the imputation was not a 
circumstance to be deplored ; it gave her a certain vigor — if it 
was but that of repudiation, the energy of a disclaimer — of which 
she felt herself to sorely stand in need. 

There ensued a pause which received a welcome interruption 
in the entrance of Majuba. She flew, like a school -girl, into 
Edith’s arms, and embraced her tenderly. “ My sister,” she mur- 
mured, timidly; “ now indeed may 1 call 3^ou sister!” Then fell 
upon her knees as though entreating pardon for a familiarity that 
had possibly given offence. Edith put aside the lustrous hair 
that hid Majuba’s brow and kissed it. “You must not kneel to 
me,” she whispered, “sisters are equals.” 

“No, no, no,” answered the girl, deprecatingly ; “all I ask is to 
be loved by her who has made my brother happy, ah, so happy!” 

Then her eyes lit upon the flowers which she had plucked 
away when she had despaired of such an issue, and with infinite 
grace and quickness proceeded to replace them about her person. 

“Is the king, your father, gone?” inquired Edith, not in ap- 
prehension ; for, companioned by this simple and affectionate 
creature, she felt that an interview with the monarch of Breda 
would be no longer so formidable. 

“Oh yes, they are all gone,” replied the girl, putting the last 
flower in her hair with the least touch of coquetry. “Did you 
not hear the conch-shells?” 

“Gone! Where are they gone to?” 


ILL NEWS. 


211 


Well, to Breda first, I suppose, and then to Amrac,” she an- 
swered, carelessly. “My father has asked the captain for assist- 
ance against our enemies, and he has lent him men and muskets. 
It is possible the fleets may meet this very day, but whether the 
contest is by sea or land, it can end only one way ; the Amrac 
people cannot fight against your thunder and lightning. They 
will never again dare to come to Fay bur and try to carry you off 
to their hateful island.” 

“But you don’t mean to say that Tarilam has gone with the 
rest?” cried Edith, starting from her chair. “ He, just risen from 
a sick-bed, to take a voyage, perhaps to fight! Why, it will kill 
him 1” 

She spoke with such anxious vehemence that Aunt Sophia 
hastened to interfere with — “ Of course he has not gone, my dar- 
ling; Majuba is mistaken.” 

“No, no,” cried the girl, delightedly; “ it is you who have been 
mistaken. Is it not clear, since she fears for him so keenly, that 
she loves him Avitli all her heart?” The ruse — if such an artless 
device could be so termed — appeared to her so eminently suc- 
cessful that she clapped her hands in childish glee. 

To Aunt Sophia, however, it was not quite so satisfactory; in 
the first place, it involved a reference to a previous conversation, 
which she would certainly have preferred to be treated as confi- 
dential; and, in the second, the deduction she drew from it was 
by no means so convincing. It seemed to her that Edith’s anx- 
fet}'’ on Tarilam’s account might have arisen naturally enough 
from her interest in him as a patient. To Majuba this was a 
reflection that had not arisen; for while love is common to the 
human race, philanthj-opy is a mere product of civilization. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

ILL NEWS. 

The aTliance between the castaways and the Bredan nation, 
which had been disclosed to Edith with such startling sudden- 
ness, had been brought about by no means so abruptly. The 
king, accompanied by a few canoes, had landed as before, leaving 
the main body of the fleet at the back of tiie island; but his meet- 
ing with the captain, though friendly, had been marked with a 
certain stiffness and reserve. He thanked him for the kindness 
shown to his son, but, once assured of his convalescence, did not, 
according to expectation, demand to be led to him; contenting 
himself with sending Majuba to her brother, he remained in 
camp, asking his usual questions about this and that— though not 
as before, through his interpreter, whom he had apparently left 
in Breda— but always with a distrait and preoccupied air which 
filled his host with vague disquiet. At last the captain sent for 


212 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Conolly, which he had hitherto forborne to do, lest he should 
wound the king’s amour propre, who had evidently a good opin- 
ion of the progress he had made in the English tongue, and tliat 
young gentleman soon made clear matters which might have 
otherwise remained inexplicable. 

The real cause of the difficulty was, in fact, what the captain 
would certainly never have expected, namely, the king’s extreme 
delicacy of mind; the same chivalrous scruples which had on a 
previous occasion caused him to keep his fleet out of sight of his 
new friends now prevented him from asking a certain favor of 
them which he had in his mind. He thought it would look un- 
generous so to do, since his request, under the circumstances, 
might appear too like dictation; and being unable to express it 
in such terms as would make it excusable, he had forborne, not- 
withstanding its urgency, to prefer it at all. 

“What right have I, Deltis,” he said in his own tongue, “to 
ask your people to help me to make war against a nation with 
whom they have no quarrel?” 

This explanation was even more acceptable to the captain than 
he thought it judicious to* admit; wherein it must be confessed 
that the Bredan king had the advantage of the British captain in 
chivalry. So far from having no quarrel with the people of Am- 
rac, the attempted raid of at least two of their nation on Faybur 
was a distinct casus belli, and an outrage the captain was extreme- 
ly willing to avenge, and to send the king a dozen men with as 
many muskets to act as allies to the whole Bredan power was a 
method of discharging his obligation— both friendly and hostile 
— as agreeable as could possibly be conceived. The Mala}’’, it 
seemed, had quarrelled with his hosts, and found their neighbors, 
the Amracs, more to his liking; and no doubt it was to his influ- 
ence that their conduct was owing. It was by no means certain, 
however, now he was dead, that they would cease from acts of 
hostility; and in any case there would be a great advantage in 
taking the initiative. 

Volunteers were at once invited for the proposed expedition, 
and the call was almost unanimously responded to. Eighteen, 
all steady and reliable men, were selected, and since diplomacy 
as well as generalship might be in request, Mr. Redmayne him- 
self was placed in command. For the same reason. Master Con- 
olly, whose value, by reason of his recent linguistic acquirements, 
was very much above the ordinary quotation of the article “mid- 
shipman,” was also included in the party. 

There was a little luggage to be stowed away, since no one 
knew how long the expedition might last, and some arrangements 
to be made, so that Majuba’s statement that “all had gone” was 
not quite literally correct. Aunt Sophia and Edith, with their 
patient, who looked very interesting, but for a young warrior 
who was deterred by circumstances from taking part in the fray 
in disgracefully good spirits, came down to the shore to add their 


ILL NEWS. 


213 


farewells to those of the rest. There were no presentiments of 
evil, for a speedy and complete victory could be reasonably 
counted on for the allied forces, but the parting had, neverthe- 
less, its pathetic side. It was the first time that any considerable 
portion of the castaways had been dissevered from the main 
body. 

“You will acquit yourselves like Englishmen, I know,” said 
the captain, addressing his little contingent, “notwithstanding 
that how you do so may never be known at home.” Whereupon 
they gave him three ringing cheers by way of assurance. 

The parting between the king and his son was dignified but 
full of affection. Master Conolly took a laughing farewell of the 
ladies, and treated the whole afifair as an excellent joke. Mr. 
Redmayne’s tone was more serious, as behooved one on whom 
a grave responsibility rested. In bidding Edith good-by he ex- 
pres.sed his hope that all would go well with her in his absence. 

“ You leave me in safe hands,” was her smiling reply, which 
referred, of course, to the captain. No sooner had the words 
passed her lips, however, than she felt her face aglow, for she re- 
membered that Tarilam was standing close behind her, and that 
her speech might seem to bear another meaning. Her conscious- 
ness of her new relations with the prince no doubt suggested the 
apprehension; yet it was strange (as she often afterwards thought), 
since the matter was one on which he could hardly entertain a 
doubt, that Mr. Redmayne answered, “I hope it may be so.”' 
Perhaps he had seen something in his rival’s face that betrayed 
his victory; but it is certain that he turned upon his heel, as if to 
avoid taking leave of him, and stepping briskly into the canoe 
that awaited him, never turned his eyes to shore again. Ilis de- 
parture, after what Aunt Sophia had so indiscreetly said of him 
— even apart from his manner of leave- taking —was, without 
doubt, a relief to Edith; nor — as this time tliere was little prob- 
ability of danger befalling him— did she, on the whole, regret the 
absence of the young midshipman; he was accustomed to run in 
and out of their dwelling like a pet dog, and it would have been 
hard to conceal her secret from his sharp eyes. 

From henceforth the inmates of the little house in Ladies’ Bay 
might be considered as a family party. If absence makes the 
heart grow fonder, nearness, too, where the heart can bear in- 
spection, has a similar effect; and of no man could it be said with 
greater truth than of Prince Tarilam, that the more one knew 
him the more one got to like him. The nobility of his nature 
manifested itself in a thousand ways, but in nothing more than 
in the delicacy with which he pursued but forbore to press his 
suit. It was amazing to Edith how soon she found herself at 
her ease with him, for she was comscious of being carried into 
those smooth waters by no great efilux of love. Majuba, no 
doubt, played a most useful part in bringing this about; a more 
unselfish and gentle creature never existed; and though she herself 


214 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


was limited in her affections, and lived, as it were, only for a very 
few people, she had an unusual appreciation of those natures 
whidli have wider range. She even contrived in time to make 
the topic of the king, her father, interesting to Edith. It was im- 
possible not to admire those simple and generous motives which 
she ascribed to him with such dutiful eloquence. She painted 
him with the warmest hues of affection, but not so much as her 
father as the father of his people. Devoted as she was to Tari- 
1am, and intensely proud of the adaptability he showed in learn- 
ing accomplishments which were utterly beyond her horizon, she 
estimated still higher those qualities of the heart which it was 
her simple faith he had inherited; she admired him most as her 
father’s son. 

“ In a word,” said Aunt Sophia, after one of these outbursts 
of enthusiasm, “Tarilam is a Prince of the Blood;” a term the 
magniloquence of which, perhaps, at least as much as its justice, 
so tickled her that she always alluded to him by that title, in 
spite of Edith’s remonstrances. A while ago she would have 
been seriously annoyed by her so styling her lover, which seemed 
to throw into relief all that was bizarre and anomalous in her 
own position, and it was significant enough that she could now 
afford to smile at it. 

The definition of the verb “ to be” in love, notwithstanding all 
the marvellous attributes ascribed to it, is a difficult one; in spite 
of its monopolizing effect, it is like most other things a matter of 
degree, and, moreover, it “grows upon one,” as the phrase goes, 
at least as often as it leaps, Minerva-like, cap-a-pie from the heart. 
Perhaps the most formidable opponent to a woman’s love is her 
sense of inferiority in her lover. In most cases this is got over, 
as we see every day, by her investing him with imaginary merits; 
but in Tarilam’s case there had been drawbacks to which it would 
have been impossible for Edith, even had she been enamoured 
with him from the first, to have shut her eyes. One by one these, 
however, were disappearing; his lineage was now no longer an 
objection, and even stood higher in her opinion from the very 
fact of his having broken “his birth’s invidious bar,” and shown 
himself so superior to his compatriots. He was fast acquiring 
knowledge and accomplishments at least equal to those possessed 
by those about her of her own people, while in all matters to 
which rivalry with them was now limited he was literally 
princeps. 

Even in our own high state of civilization the gifts of mere 
strength and ffeetness and of skill in all manly exercises count 
for more, perhaps, than we are willing to acknowledge, in a 
woman’s eyes, and these Tarilam possessed in perfection. That 
he was of dauntless courage she had had proof; nor are youth 
and beauty, with propinquity, to be entirely left out of our calcu- 
lations, however ethereal may be the view it is the fashion to take 
of this tender subject. Aunt Sophia, who was not a bad judge 


ILL NEWS. 


215 


of such matters, presently discovered that though she was never 
permitted to feel de trop, her presence was not so necessary in the 
way of avoiding embarrassment to her niece as it had been, and 
that she could leave the two young people together without much 
compunction. If her views on the subject, indeed, could have 
been confined to Ladies’ Bay, nothing could have been more 
idyllic than the establishment there of Tarilam and Edith as man 
and wife, with Majuba and herself to keep house for them. Un- 
fortunately, however, though their world had become very lim- 
ited, it was not entirely confined to themselves, albeit just at 
present they lived as if it had been. Deprived of the services of 
his first mate, and feeling the absence even of a midshipman from 
the scanty staff of officers now remaining to him, the captain 
had his hands fully occupied with the reins of government, and 
for the same reason Mr. Doyle, and even Mr, Ainsworth (who 
w^as always read}’' to assist authority) had little leisure for paying 
visits to the ladies. 

It astonished them both, therefore, not a little when, as they 
were sitting at breakfast together as usual, with Tarilam and his 
sister, one morning. Captain Head presented himself. 

All started up to welcome him, for he was a great favorite with 
every one of them, after their different fashions; to Edith espe- 
cially he had supplied, as far as in him lay, the place of a father, 
and in her face there was some confusion, for he had seemed to 
her to regard her with a peculiar gravity, which her self-con- 
sciousness ascribed to the matter on which she had not thought 
fit to place in him a daughter’s confidence. It was a relief to her 
that when he spoke he addressed himself not to her, but to the 
company generally. 

“I am sorry, my friends,” he said, in a tone of gravity and 
deep emotion, “ to be the bearer of bad news.” 

“There is nothing amiss in camp, I do hope,” exclaimed Aunt 
Sophia, fervently; her apprehension centred for the moment in 
Mr. Ainsworth — to her just now he was the most important of 
their fellow-exiles. For though by custom in those da3^s a ship’s 
captain was fully competent, under special circumstances, to join 
two persons in holy matrimony, she felt in the case she had in 
mind, where so much of conventional requirement was wanting, 
the services of an authorized divine to be especially desirable. 

“All is well in camp— with those that are left of us,” returned 
the captain. 

“ Can it be possible, then, that the expedition has failed?” con- 
tinued Aunt Sophia — this of course was the natural, however 
improbable, alternative; but the expression the captain had used 
— “ those that are left of us” — to Edith’s ear had spoken of more 
than failure, and paralyzed her tongue with terror. 

“The expedition has been successful,” he continued, “so far as 
its object was concerned; your hereditary enemies, Prince Tari- 
lam, have been defeated so utterly that they will not trouble yon 


21G 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


again for many a year, but the victory has cost your allies very 
dearly. We sent hut two officers, as you know, and one of them 
is slain. Ladies, I know it will distress you very much to learn 
that we have lost Mr, Redmayne. He has been killed by a poi- 
soned arrow.” 

Aunt Sophia burst into tears; she was grieved to the bottom of 
her heart, and yet there was a sense of relief to her in the misera- 
ble news. It might have been told of Conolly, whom she regard- 
ed with almost a mother’s love; perhaps, too, there was a more 
selfish consideration, if that which concerns the interest of an- 
other can be called selfishness, which rendered Mr. Redmayne’s 
loss the less deplorable of the two. 

Though she did not weep, every trace of color had fled from 
Edith’s cheeks. “ I am very sorry,” she said, in distressful tones, 
in which soniething of penitence as well as pity seemed to mingle. 
The thought of the dead man’s last good-by shot through her with 
a remorseful pang. Then catching sight of the prince, who, 
deeply moved by her emotion, was regarding her with wistful 
eyes, and remembering how he too had nearly succumbed to the 
same deadly weapon that had slain the other, she suddenly threw 
her arms round his neck, and burst into tears. 

It was a mere uncontrollable impulse, the significance of which, 
even when she had given way to it, did not occur to her. 

Aunt Sophia, however, who, as is often the case, was wont to 
have her wits about her when others of keener intelligence might 
have been at a loss how to act for the best at the spur of the mo- 
ment, at once beckoned the captain into another room. 

“Your terrible news,” she said, “has utterly upset my poor 
Edie.” 

“ JSTo doubt,” was the dry reply. “Instinct, however, seems to 
have taught her where to look for comfort.” 

“You guess what has happened, then. Well, it is true that my 
niece has consented to become the prince’s wife. You who have 
been so kind and good to us would certainly have been the first of 
all our friends to hear the news, but she has told no one; she wishes 
for the present to keep the matter a secret. I hope you do not 
think she has chosen ill; at least you will not be angry with her,” 
pleaded Aunt Sophia, for the captain’s face was very grave. 

“No, no; I was only thinking for a moment of my poor Red- 
mayne, though I alv.'ays knew that he had no chance. Angry 
with her? God bless her, why should I be angry?” He paced up 
and down the little room as though it were his quarter deck. 

“Edith’s position is a painful and most peculiar one,” put in 
Aunt Sophia, gently. 

“No doubt, no doubt. For my part, I have every reason for 
congratulation, for this takes a load of responsibility from my 
shoulders. It was pressing on me just now almost as heavily as 
my bad news. In Marston you ladies lost one friend who would 
have stood by you to the death, and in Redmayne you have lost 


THE EXPEDITION. 


217 


another; the few in whom you can really trust may now be 
counted on one hand, and I myself may be cut off any day. It is 
most fortunate, therefore, that the girl has found so kind and 
worthy a protector as this excellent young fellow. It is a pity, 
of course, tliat he is not an Englishman.” 

“Yes, indeed,” sighed Aunt Sophia, to whom the recollection 
of Tarilam’s nationality was always painful, however studiously 
she strove to ignore it. 

“Well, there’s always a drawback in these matters,” said the 
captain, consolingly. “ If a girl’s lover is young, he is sure not 
to have a penny; if he is rich, it is ten to one he is a fool; if he’s 
clever, it’s only too probable that he will turn out a rogue; and if 
he is a prince with all the virtues, he’s got a father who wears a 
loose bracelet and feathers in his hair.” 

This last statement was open to dispute, and even contradiction, 
but the captain made it with such an extremity of contempt in 
his tone as presupposed some cause of personal indignation, into 
which Aunt Sophia wisely forbore to pry. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE EXPEDITfON. 

PIowEVEK hesitating had been the approbation which good, old- 
fashioned Captain Head had bestowed upon Edith’s intentions, 
the discovery of them gave her strength and courage. In reveal- 
ing her secret to him, though she had done so unintentionally, she 
felt that she had broken the ice, and though she still desired to 
keep the matter from the ears of the rest of her fellow-country- 
men, the idea of divulging it gave her less distress of mind. 

For the present, however, there was excuse enough for reticence 
in the calamity which had befallen the little community. As to 
the captain, in Mr. Redmayne he felt that he had lost his right 
hand, and all who had any sense of duty shared his opinion. The 
body of the young officer had been committed to the deep, but 
the shadow of his loss fell upon the survivors even deeper and 
darker than that of Mr. Marston had done, whom they had laid 
in his grave with their own hands. The young officer’s nature 
had been brighter and more buoyant than that of his predecessor, 
and to many the isle itself seemed to have henceforth lost some 
of its sunshine. 

Master Lewis Conolly was especially cast down by what had 
happened, and could hardly tell the tale to his comrades with the 
calmness and dignity befitting the sole surviving officer of the ex- 
pedition. With the gentler audience in Ladies’ Bay, notwithstand- 
ing that it included the prince, he made no attempt to conceal his 
feelings, which, so far from despising, Tarilam, indeed, appeared 
to sympathize with in an extraordinary degree. The news of the 


218 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


victory obtained by his people was naturally gratifying to him; 
but he listened to the boy’s narrative with no trace of triumph, 
but with the sorrowfulness and seriousness of one who counts the 
cost. 

The English had embarked in twelve canoes manned by native 
rowers, and with the rest of the fleet had reached Breda without mol- 
estation from the enemy. There they had put in for refreshments 
and reinforcements, and were detained by the state of the weather 
from their projected invasion of the Amrac country. It was not 
only very boisterous, but wet — a circumstance always distasteful 
to the Bredans, and which was also of great inconvenience to the 
English from the difliculty of keeping their muskets dry. This 
enforced delay enabled the new-comers to make some acquaint- 
ance with the place and its inhabitants, of which Mr. Redmayne, 
in company with the young midshipman, took advantage. He 
thought it might be useful to them in the future, and possibly 
if ever the}'’ returned to their native land, even of public service. 

The island was long, but narrow, and well wooded, and only to 
be approached from the south and west; in other directions it was 
surrounded by a reef of coral, in some places as much as twenty 
miles from the shore, and in none less than six. This reef acted 
as an immense breakwater, and rendered the sea thus enclosed 
almost always calm, which added to the sense of isolation with 
which the place impressed its visitors. There was no grain any- 
■wdiere; and though grass was plentiful, since there were no cattle 
to consume it, it grew high, and was scorched and burned up by 
the sun. There was no quadruped of any kind; and though there 
were cocks and hens in plenty, they were never eaten unless when 
in the egg; that is to say, no eggs were eaten when fresh, but only 
when there was a chicken within them. 

The only bird ever heard to sing was the deltis, whose pipe was 
as sweet as a flageolet, but, curiously enough, they never beheld 
one. The chief food of the natives was yams and fish — of the 
latter there was a great variety — but that in most esteem was the 
kuna cockle. The shell of it was enormous; and when diving for 
it, in which the people were amazingly expert, it would often take 
two men to bring up a single specimen. The only luxuries were 
sweetmeats, of which the natives were as fond as children. The 
one which had proved so distasteful to the young midshipman 
was made of the kernel of the cocoa-nut mixed with syrup ex- 
tracted from the sugar-cane. Their only drink was the milk of 
the cocoa-nut, and they had no salt. There was no river in the 
place, but many streams and numberless ponds of exquisite clear- 
ness and beauty. Some of these were set apart for bathing pur- 
poses. When any man whose business led him near one of those 
appropriated to the other sex he was obliged to make some partic- 
ular “halloo,” which, if answered by a female voice, he could not 
go on, however urgent might be his affairs. 

There was never any wrangling or fighting. Whenever a mat- 


THE EXPEDITION. 


219 


ter was in dispute it was brought before the king, who sat in pub- 
lic every day to do justice. Every mark of distinction was paid 
to him; his chiefs approached him with respect, and his orOinary 
subjects when they addressed him always put their hands behind 
them like pupils waiting before their master; even when passing 
any house where he was supposed to be, they never omitted this 
action of humility. The king’s behavior was always gentle and 
gracious; he listened with patience to all that was said before him, 
nor did any suppliant seem to leave his presence dissatisfied. 
When in council, messages were delivered in a whisper through 
some inferior chief, who, in his turn, addressed the monarch in a 
low voice, and always with his face turned aside. One punish- 
ment for evil-doers — if, indeed, any of such a blameless race could 
be so called — was “the king’s censure,” which exposed them to 
universal shame. 

The prime-minister, who never left the island, was next in rank 
to the king, and was always first consulted by him. lie never 
bore arms, nor was he distinguished by the Order of the Bone. 
Neither Mr. liedmayne nor Conolly were ever invited to his house, 
as they were to that of the other chiefs; he remained a mys-tery to 
them. 

Here Conolly paused in his narration, which perhaps had more 
interest for Edith than he had any idea of, since he was describ- 
ing a land that in all probability would be her home. He per- 
ceived that she was listening with attention ; but it suddenly 
struck him that these details were not only well known to two of 
his little audience, but might seem impertinent, and even dis- 
agreeable, to them. 

The prince, mistaking the reason of his silence, observed with 
a smile that the prime-minister w'as the wisest of the king’s coun- 
sellors, and selected from the whole people because of his sagac- 
ity. His intelligence forbade him to accept of any mere tokens 
of honor, and also of the gifts which otherwise would have been 
showered upon him. His life was one of extreme simplicity, and 
the sole reason why he had not asked the Englishmen to his dwell- 
ing was, doubtless, because it was a mere hut, and therefore un- 
worthy of their attention. 

Conolly explained that it was not curiosity about the prime- 
minister that had made him pause, but the reflection that what he 
was saying might seem an intrusion upon the prince’s private 
affairs. 

“Indeed,” said Tarilam, with a gentle smile, “that is not so, 
Deltis ; you are w^elcome to tell anything you have seen- among 
my people, of whom, though simple and ignorant, I have no rea- 
son to feel ashamed.” 

“ In truth, he may well say that. Miss Edie,” said the midship- 
man, warmly, “for it is a fact, that not only perjury, but false- 
hood of any kind is absolutely unknown among them. More- 
over, though the Amracs used poisoned arrows, the Bredans do 


220 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


not do so, from moral scruples, which, of course, places them at a 
great disadvantage in their wars with their neighbors.” 

“The advantage was on our side this time, at all events,” ob- 
served the prince, with modesty, “ for we had the thunder-guns.” 

“Also,” "continued the midshipman, “ the Bredans do not think 
it fair to make an attack on an enemy by night.” 

Then he went on to describe their weapons: the spears, twelve 
feet long, for throwing, which could be launched with certainty 
for sixty feet; and the spears, eighteen feet long, for close quar- 
ters; the dart and the sling — the latter, a piece of wood with a 
notch for the dart to lie in; and their daggers, made of the sting 
of the crawfish. Their canoes were all made of the trunk of a tree 
like the English ash, and those used in war were painted red both 
within and without, and inlaid with shells. The smallest vessel 
held five people, and the largest thirty-five; and anything more 
beautiful than the Bredan fleet, when collected for the expedi- 
tion, was never seen upon the sea. When the weather permitted 
it to start, it numbered more than two hundred canoes, on board 
of which were fifteen hundred men. In each boat there was only 
one spearsman besides the rowers. On reaching the enemy’s 
coast, a small canoe met them bearing four men, each with a 
white feather in his hair, in sign of parley and, as the English 
thought, of submission. This, however, was far from being the 
case. The chief of the Amracs demanded that certain injuries 
to their people committed by the Bredans should be redressed, 
but more particularly that they should give up all claim to the 
island of Faybur and its present inhabbants, including its god- 
dess, whom it Avas the fixed intention of the Amrac nation to im- 
port into their own country as a guardian deity, to whom they 
looked for great prosperity. These terms being rejected, the 
Amrac fleet came out to give battle to the invaders. 

With a view to make their victory more complete by waiting 
till the whole force was engaged, the English reserved their fire, 
and in the first discharge of arrows Mr. Redmayne received his 
death-wound. On seeing him fall, the Amrac fleet set up a shout 
of triumph, which was answered by a discharge of musketry. 
The effect of it was amazing; the unaccustomed noise and the 
flashes of the fire appalled the enemy, and when they saw their 
people drop without apparently receiving a blow, and perceived 
that they had holes in their bodies in which no spear was stick- 
ing, they broke and fled in the wildest disorder. No less than a 
hundred canoes were sunk and fifty taken. The conduct of the 
prisoners, some of whom were of high rank, was curious in the 
extreme. ^ The majority exhibited a stolid resignation, and, un- 
tying their hair, which was tressed in a huge bunch at the top of 
their heads, let it fall over their faces in token of submission; 
but the few who were distinguished by a bone bracelet on their 
wrist defended themselves with the utmost obstinac3^ and only 
in one case was one taken alive. This warrior had both his arms 


THE INVESTITURE. 


221 


broken by musket-balls, and when taken into Conolly’s canoe 
never took his eyes from the midshipman’s face; in all the pain 
of his wound, and in the prospect of immediate dissolution, seem- 
ing to be impressed by nothing so much as the color of his novel 
enemy. There was no slaughter of the prisoners, but all dead, 
whether friends or enemies, were at once thrown into the sea. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE INVESTITURE. 

The young midshipman’s account of the contest, though it had 
its interest for all, was listened to with very different feelings by 
the members of his audience. Aunt Sophia regarded it with hor- 
ror, not only as a picture of savage strife, but as a specimen page 
out of a book of life with which it was only too probable they 
might be one day more familiar, Edith showed little emotion, 
but kept her eyes fixed on Tarilam, as though the contemplation 
of his noble face was an antidote to what would have been other- 
wise revolting, and seemed to find in it the reassurance of which 
she doubtless stood in need. Majuba, though shrinking from the 
details of slaughter, wore a look of conscious pride, not only 
when the naval powers of her people were alluded to, but when 
the indifference to death manifested by the chieftains of her 
hereditary foes was dwelt upon. 

“We too, you see, savages as you may deem us,” her face 
seemed to say, “are not altogether devoid of heroism.” 

Tarilam listened to it with grave and philosophic face, as he 
might have listened to anything else which had a foregone con- 
clusion. He was thinking less of what was said than of its effect 
upon those who heard it. 

“ What has happened,” he thoughtfully remarked, when Con- 
olly had finished, “may seem deplorable, but it could hardly 
have been avoided. Even among civilized people I am told that 
wmr is not uncommon. In this war it was absolutely necessary 
to chastise a barbarous race who have always interfered with our 
peace and quietness.* Thanks to the aid the captain lent us, there 
will be now peace in Breda for years to come.’^ 

“ There is something in that,” admitted Aunt Sophia, less in- 
terested in general principles of government than in their prac- 
tical application to herself and her belongings. She had looked 
upon Amrac and its inhabitants as merely an item in that long 
list of “disagreeables” which she foresaw Fate had in store for 
them, and rejoiced that there was now at least one the less. 

The idea may not have been without its weight with Edith, 
but her mind was much more made up than that of the elder 
lady as regarded her future. On the other hand, the claims of 
personal friendship were as yet far stronger with her than thost? 


222 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


of the country she was about to adopt as her own. In her heart 
of hearts she not only mourned jMr. Redmayne’s loss more than 
that of all the Bredans that had fallen, but grudged it, as too 
great a sacrifice for the end accomplished. What was such a vic- 
tory V What was even the national benefit conferred upon the 
victors, in comparison with the violent death of one of her own 
race she had so long known and respected? Love, it is said, is 
beyond all things a partisan; but with Edith it had its limits in 
that direction. The prospect that awaited her could hardly be 
said to be a welcome one, but she had resolved to accept it, and 
almost to make the best of it. 

Curiously enough, she found the greatest obstacles to contend 
with in what seemed matters of small importance. The igno- 
rance of Tarilam’s fellow-countrymen — which was after all their 
inexperience, and which, in the case of the prince himself, and 
even in that of Majuba, only gave the impression of a pleasing 
simplicity — affected her like a personal humiliation. The easily 
awakened ridicule of the sailors at the gcmcherie and blunder of 
their new friends gave her exquisite pain. In uniting herself 
with one whom she firmly believed to be one of the noblest of 
men, she could not forget the race from which he sprang. The 
disgrace of ancestry is comparatively a small matter, except to 
very small minds, because its dishonor is invisible and lies in the 
grave, but in her case it met her at every turn. Only when alone 
with Tarilam or his sister could she forget it. Even the behavior 
of the king himself, though she had learned to admire his char- 
acter exceedingly, filled her with confusion, which might well be 
termed “twice confounded,” for she was ashamed of herself for 
being ashamed of him. 

An example of this of an unusually striking kind took place 
within a few days. King Taril came over to Faybur in great 
state to thank his allies for the assistance they had rendered him. 
Nothing could have been more gracious or considerate than the 
manner in which he expressed himself. Passing by all mention 
of his own share and that of his nation in the late victory, he 
ascribed it solely to the English, and dwelt with regret upon the 
loss sustained in championing his quarrel. In feeling, as Aunt 
Sophia justly said, this untutored monarch was as true a gentle- 
man as ever sat on a throne, but in practical matters he could 
use only such tools as came to his hand. A philosophic mind 
might well have regarded the savage pomp surrounding him, and 
the slavish submission that was paid him by his ordinary sub- 
jects, with indifference, or even perceived in it precisely the same 
elements that make up the more civilized manifestations of re- 
spect for royalty; but upon Edith’s mind, who was on this occa- 
sion an unwilling but indispensable witness of them, they jarred 
with a sharp sense of pain. The blowing of conch-shells, the 
flourishing of paddles, the prostration of the oarsmen on the 
shore, and the bated breath with which evea his nobles— always 


THE INVESTITUKE. 


223 


with averted face — addressed the king, had something to her of 
tragedy as well as farce. She could not watch the show as a 
looker-on, nor even with the comparative indifference of the cap- 
tain, who on this occasion had a part to play in it himself, which 
he would very willingly, had refusal been possible without of- 
fence, have declined. 

The king had announced his intention to award him the high 
order of “ The Bone,” an honor, as has been said, bestowed only 
upon the greatest chiefs ; and it was the knowledge that this 
greatness was to be bestowed on him which had made the good 
captain so satirical when speaking of his Majesty to Aunt So- 
phia. 

The investiture of a Knight of the Garter is not without its 
humorous features, which a consideration of the merits of the 
case may sometimes heighten, perhaps, rather than otherwise ; 
but such a ceremony, shorn of those externals which have been 
so wittily said to leave majesty “a jest,” was ludicrous indeed. 
If Breda had possessed a “Court Journal,” the ceremony would 
have been thus described. 

The king and his nobles stood together apart, while the cap- 
tain sat in front of them at a little distance; the king’s brother 
advanced with the circlet and inquired of him which hand he 
used in common. This question was not, however, to be replied 
to verbally, which would have been contrary to etiquette. A 
stone was placed in each hand, with a request that he should 
throw it to a distance, and the ordeal having proved the left to 
be less in use, the left wrist was elected for the proposed honor. 
Unfortunately, however, the captain’s frame was somewhat thick- 
set, and the circlet, not being elastic, like a garter, had to be 
rasped away to fit it. Even then it would not go on. Strings 
were therefore attached to the captain’s fingers, and his hand 
having been plentifully lubricated with cocoa-nut oil, the king’s 
brother held him fast by the shoulder, and three nobles already 
decorated with the order were set to work to pull at the strings. 
The most profound silence was preserved among the natives 
during this trying ceremony, and was only once broken by the 
captain, who, as the magic circlet was painfully compressed on 
the joints of his hand, was heard to murmur, “ D— n the bone!” 
The exclamation, however, was fortunately drowned in the shout 
of applause that hailed the success of the operatiou. 

Some men, we are told, are born to greatness; others achieve it; 
and others, again, have greatness thrust upon them. This last 
was, very literally, the captain’s case. He had an Englishman’s 
contempt for all distinctions conferred by any sovereign save his 
own. He did not look upon a ruler of Breda, however absolute 
and powerful, as a sovereign from the right mint, or even as a 
sovereign at all. He had an uneasy consciousness that the spec- 
tators of his own nation were with difficulty suppressing their 
mirth, aud he was suffering acute physical pain. 


224 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Nevertheless, under these untoward circumstances, he had to 
listen with a gratified countenance to the royal congratulations. 

“You will" take care, I trust,” said the king, with dignified 
gravity, “that this token of honor is rubbed bright every day, 
and preserved as a testimony of the rank conferred upon you; 
and I adjure 5^ou to defend it valiantly and never to suffer it to 
be torn from your wrist save with the loss of life.” A promise, 
considering what it had cost him to get it on, the captain had no 
scruple in giving with much effusion. 

Edith watched the proceedings with feelings w^hich she was 
utterly unconscious of expressing in her face, till she heard Tari- 
1am whisper in her ear, 

“ It is a poor thing to give your captain, dear Edie, it is true; 
but it is the only thing we have to give.” 

It was the first time that anything like a reproof had passed 
the prince’s lips, and it touched her to the quick. She not only 
felt the pity for him that is akin to love, but the keenest remorse 
upon her own account; his assumption of authority — if so slight 
and indirect a rebuke could so be called — so far from being re- 
sented, was positively agreeable to her, not as a pious novice wel- 
comes a penance, but as a symbol of domestic supremacy. If 
she did not look forward with effusion to the wearing of the mar- 
riage-ring, she henceforth felt that the obstacles to her doing so 
were less serious; that it would slip on, at all events, with less 
difficulty than the captain’s bracelet had done. She was not only 
resigned to her fate, but, so far as Tarilam was concerned, could 
even honestly call it her good-fortune. Her affection did not in- 
deed stand in need of increase; every day passed in his company 
seemed to reveal some new vein of gentleness and goodness in 
his character; it was her philosophy as regarded his belongings 
that required fortifying, and as it chanced this also had now 
happened to her at the very time when the tie of personal attach- 
ment was drawn lighter than it had ever been before. 

The king and his nobles had accepted the captain's hospitality 
for seven days, and his manner towards her was so kind and deli- 
cate, as well as obviously genuine, that she sometimes found her- 
self forgetting that- he had the power of life and death, and ate 
his fish with his fingers. What pleased her most, however, was 
to see other people forgetting it, and in particular to hear Aunt 
Sophia speak to her of the monarch of Breda as “that dear old 
gentleman.” What, in short, had first appeared impossible, and 
then improbable, was becoming an accomplished fact; and though 
no one outside what might be called the family circle, save the 
captain, was aware of Edith’s engagement, it only remained for 
her, in mercy as well as justice to her lover — for she was well 
convinced it was a matter which his intense diffidence and hu- 
mility would prevent him from pressing upon her— to fix the day 
on which he might call her his owp. 


THE DEKELICT. 


225 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE DERELICT, 

Exactly a fortnight after the little breakfast-party at Ladies’ 
Bay had received the news of battle, it was interrupted by an- 
other messenger bearing still more important and utterly un- 
looked-for tidings. Conolly ran past the open window, waving 
his cap and shouting something which haste and excitement ren- 
dered inaudible, and then rushed into the room crying, “A sail! 
a sail!” 

“Do 5mu mean a ship?” exclaimed Aunt Sophia, starting to 
her feet in agitation. 

“Yes, an English ship making for the island. Hark, there 
speaks the signal from the lookout;” and as he spoke the thunder 
of one of the great guns woke for the first time the echoes of the 
surrounding hills, 

“She was signalled from the hill ten minutes ago,” the boy 
went on, with breathless vehemence, “but we could not believe 
our eyes. John Newman has just run down to tell us. It is an 
English ship, he says, an Indiaman, like our dear old Ganges, and 
now we shall all get home again.” 

“Heaven be praised!” ejaculated Aunt Sophia, earnestly. 

Edith dropped her head, and her pale lips murmured something 
inaudible. 

“But you must all come out and see the ship,” persisted the 
midshipman, too excited to perceive the effect his tidings had 
produced upon the girl. 

“In a minute or two, my dear boy, we will be with you,” re- 
plied Aunt Sophia, evasively; and off he ran, grudging to lose 
any portion of the spectacle of the approaching vessel. To him 
it was the harbinger of joy; and so, for the moment, it had seem- 
ed to the speaker. The thought of returning to her native land 
had wholly monopolized her mind. Only when she caught sight 
of Edith’s face was she reminded that to her niece’s ears, since 
she had plighted faith with the prince, this news brought no mes- 
sage of freedom— nay, that it made her future position even less 
tolerable by its isolation and the loss of all her friends. 

“Edith darling,” she cried, vehemently, “ there must be a limit 
to all self-sacrifice. If you feel the abnegation demanded of you 
too much for your strength, as well you may, leave the matter in 
my hands. Let me plead for you with dear Tarilam. What has 
now happened could not have been foreseen, and overrules what 
has taken place between you. His noble nature will admit it, and 
will absolve you from a promise made under circumstances which 
no longer exist. In sending us this ship, when all hope of revisit- 
15 


226 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


ing England seemed lost to us, the finger of Providence itself has 
beckoned you home.’' 

Edith listened till the other had finished, without sign or sound. 
Except that she kept her gaze steadily fixed upon Tarilam, she 
might have been a marble statue. “ Do not tempt me, Sophy 
darling,” she answered, in the other’s ear, in never-to-be-forgotten 
tones; “ you make the path of duty harder for me.” 

Then, with a bright smile that illumined her white face like 
moonlight upon snow, she rose to her feet, and, advancing with 
firm step to lier lover, who sat with his eyes upon the ground as 
though submissively awaiiting her decision, laid her hand loving- 
ly upon liis shoulder. The very pressure of her fingers told him 
at what decision she had arrived before she spoke. 

The prince sprang to his feet, and, with a look of ineffable grat- 
itude and content, clasped her in his arms. “ Here is my home,” 
she said, returning his embrace, “ which I will never quit till death 
beckons me away. When you are back in England, Sophy dear” 
— here her voiee trembled a little in spite of all her efforts — “you 
must think of me as a happy woman. Tarilam has given me his 
all, and I have given him all I have to give. He will not mind if, 
now and then, perchance my look is sad with thinking of you, 
dear, so far away.” Here she wholly broke down and hid her 
face in Tarilam’s breast. 

“ He shall never see it so,” exclaimed Aunt Sophia, impulsive- 
ly. “I will never leave you nor forsake you, Edie dear. Even 
as Ruth clave to Naomi in the old times, so will I cleave to you. 
Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest,! will lodge: 
thy people shall be my people ; the Lord do so to me, and more 
also, if aught but death part thee and me.” 

It was difficult to recognize Aunt Sophia as she poured forth, 
half unconscious whose they were, those noble words; her home- 
ly face was transfigured by the grandeur of her self-sacrifice. Ma- 
juba, who had sat silent and troubled throughout this painful 
scene, which she only half understood, gazed at her with such 
awed amazement as might have been awakened in some Delphian 
girl by the inspired sibyl. 

“No, no, no!” cried Edith, remonstratively, “ that must never 
be.” 

“But I say ‘yes,’” answered Aunt Sophia; “whom have I to 
love but you? How can I spend wdiat little remains to me of 
life more usefully, more wisely, nay, more happily, than by my 
darling’s side. You may count upon my companionship as set- 
tled, Edie,” she added, with lender earnestness; “and now, Maju- 
ba, these two young people had better be left together for a little, 
while you and I go and see the ship come in.” 

It was a spectacle which she felt that Edith was just now by no 
means equal to, and indeed it was one which she herself had need 
to summon all the forces of her courage and resolution, to face. 
Without setting too great a store on her own value, she could 


THE DERELICT. 


227 


not but be aware that her promise to share her niece’s exile had 
robbed it of half its terrors for her; having once made the offer, 
it could never be cancelled, and she did not repent it; neverthe- 
less, the sight that awaited her in Rescue Bay filled her with man}'- 
a bitter pang. Every eye was fixed upon the approaching vessel 
and every tongue was discoursing of it with eager joy. Men by 
no means given to the melting mood were softened by home 
thoughts, and shook one another by the hand in wild congratula- 
tion. It almost seemed that all that resignation and philosophy 
they had shown for so many months had been a mere mask to 
hide their passionate yearnings for their native land; already the 
husband saw in imagination his wife welcoming him, long lost, 
but not despaired of. to his home; the father beheld hischiid; the 
brother his sister. The captain looked ten years younger than he 
had done an hour ago; an immense weight of responsibility had 
been lifted from his shoulders, and his face fluslied with pleasure 
as he reflected that all this great human family which had been 
committed to his charge — a trust that had not been misused— were 
about to be restored to their belongings. Master Conolly had a 
telescope, which he pressed upon Aunt Sophia in broken tones. 
“ I do not want it, I don’t indeed,” he said; and looking at his 
face it was easy to perceive the reason. He was thinking of the 
mother who, after all, would see her boy again, and the tears 
dimmed his sight. 

The aspect of the approaching ship was peculiar. She was of 
large size and had every stitch of sail spread, and as the wind was 
favorable to her progress towards the island her arrival might 
have been looked for within an hour at the furthest; but there 
-was something strange, as even Aunt Sophia’s unskilled eyes could 
perceive, about her steering. She came on without tacking, yet 
in a series of zigzags. Her nationality was plain, for she showed 
English colors, but otherwise she was an enigma. She took not 
the slightest notice of the signals made from the lookout, but 
blindly staggered on like a drunken man. No living creature 
could be descried upon her deck, and but that she showed no 
trace of harm from wind or wave, and rose up high in the, wa- 
ter, she might have been taken for a wreck abandoned by her 
crew. 

As she drew nearer, indeed, and, without the least regard to 
the warnings from the land, .seemed to be making for the reef on 
which the Ganges had come to grief. Captain Head came to the 
conclusion that she was without human guidance, and some sail- 
ors were despatched in canoes with the object of boarding her 
and bringing her into harbor — an operation watched from shore 
with the utmost eagerness and excitement. It was doubtful 
whether the interest of the Bredan spectators, who had never seen 
any craft larger than the two boats belonging to the Ganges, or 
that of the English, was the greater. As the huge ship was steered 
through the channel into the deep but calm waters that fringed 


228 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


the bay, the exclamations of delight from the natives mingled 
with a burst of English cheers. 

From the closest examination it appeared that she had suffered 
no damage of any kind, nor was there a sign of the existence of 
any infectious disease such as the captain feared might have 
caused her abandonment. On the other hand, there was not so 
much as a ship’s biscuit, nor one drop of water, in the way of 
provision; and his opinion — no doubt a just one, though it was 
never corroborated — was that the ship, having been driven out of 
her course like the Ganges by rough weather, had been afterwards 
caught in one of those protracted calms which, according to the 
testimony of the natives, alternated with storms in that latitude, 
and that the crew, with starvation staring them in the face, had 
taken to their boats with such small store of food as still remained 
to them, and, worn out by toil and privation, had probably perished. 

Compassion, however, for the sufferings of those whom we have 
never seen, or even heard of — and much less when as in this case, 
the matter is problematical and uncertain — is necessarily but of a 
transitory kind, and such considerations were soon forgotten in 
the general joy. What to others, it was only too probable, had 
been a catastrophe, seemed to the castaways on the shores of Fay- 
bur a signal act of mercy. They had found, ready to their hand, 
in all respects save one — that of provisions — the means of trans- 
porting themselves to their native land. It was no wonder, there- 
fore, that their self-congratulations were excessive; what was 
much more surprising was that their guests, the Bredans, should 
exhibit such satisfaction in what had happened; yet such was the 
amiability of their dispositions that, notwithstanding the obvious 
loss the departure of allies so powerful would inflict upon them, 
they expressed the most genuine pleasure at their good-fortune. 

“ How lucky it is,” said the captain to Aunt Sophia, “ that mat- 
ters have gone no further as regards Tarilam and Miss Edith; 
though while congratulating you upon Avhat we must needs now 
consider her fortunate escape, I cannot but pity the poor prince, 
to whom we are under so many obligations.” 

Then Aunt Sophia told him how Edith meant to keep her 
plighted word, and how she herself had resolved to share her 
niece’s exile. 

The captain’s weather-beaten face grew tender as he listened, and 
when she had done he held out both his hands to her. “ You are 
two angels,” he murmured, with much emotion. “I dare not 
say what I think of you both, or you would call me an idolater. 
If our places were reversed it would be impossible that I could 
imitate such self-denial; at the most I can only estimate it at its 
proper value. We men call ourselves brave; but compared with 
women such as you we are but as mice to lions. I will not at- 
tempt to dissuade either of you from treading a path of duty so 
liigh and so precipitous that it well might make you dizzy to con- 
template it; but perhaps the mouse may help the lions.” 


THE DERELICT. 


229 


“You have helped us very much, dear Captain Head,” said 
Aunt Sophia, feebly smiling; “ when I think of all you have done 
for us the tears stand in my eyes, as you perceive; but I fear the 
time has come when it is fated that we must lose your aid.” 

“I said ‘ perhaps,’ ” replied the captain, with earnest signifi- 
cance, and, unwilling to witness the tears she could not restrain, 
he turned away abruptly. 

Of course. Aunt Sophia knew he could not really help matters; 
no human aid could now avert the strong current of circumstances 
that was hurrying away Edith and herself into regions new and 
strange; but nevertheless there was something in his words, inde- 
pendently of their sympathy, wdiich cheered her. 

She returned to Ladies’ Bay and gently chided Edith for re- 
maining within- doors while such great events were happening; 
her absence, as she justly argued, could not fail to be remarked 
upon sooner or later, and being associated with that of Tarilam, 
must needs betray her secret to everybody. That they must now 
know it soon was true enough, but it was better, she urged, that it 
should be told by Edith’s lips than gathered from idle gossip. 

“You are right, dear,” answered Edith, with a little flush; “I 
shall not be ashamed to tell them.” 

To any one who saw Tarilam as he looked that day, it would 
have been difficult indeed to associate him with inferiority in any 
shape. To his native dignity and faultless grace there was added 
a look of calm content and happiness as different from the bon- 
fire glow of triumph as is the serenity of a star. He looked every 
inch a prince, but not less a grateful lover. Majuba and he went 
down to the shore and met with something like an ovation. The 
high spirits of the English overflowed in all directions, and their 
feelings of amity towards the Bredans, heretofore but too much 
mitigated by prejudice and even jealousy, knew no bounds now 
that they were about to bid adieu to them. The appearance of 
the two ladies was the signal for a burst of cheering, and they 
were overwhelmed on all sides by congratulations upon their ap- 
proaching deliverance, every word of which caused them infinite 
embarrassment and pain. 

All this time the king and the captain talked apart, with an 
earnestness and gravity that forbade interruption. The difficulty 
of making themselves intelligible to each other no doubt pro- 
longed the interview, but its duration was something portentous. 
At last the knotty point appeared to be settled, and the king beck- 
oned to his son to join them, when the conversation was -again 
renewed. 

The presence of the vessel in harbor attracted the eyes of all 
the rest, including even those of Edith, Her mind was full of 
thoughts unutterable, or which she would have perished rather 
than utter, as she gazed upon the ship that was to bear all her 
countrymen away from her forever; but Aunt Sophia, wdlh the 
remembrance of the captain’s “ perhaps ” in her mind, threw many 


230 


A PRINCE OE THE BLOOD. 


a glance in his direction and trembled with vague hopes and 
fears. Was it possible, she wondered, that the captain had per- 
suaded the king to use his influence — which was paramount with 
his son — to release her niece from her engagement? A cruel 
thought as regarded poor Tarilam, it may be said, and one un- 
worthy of her; but Aunt Sophia, unselfish and self-sacrificing as 
she had proved herself to be, had the w^eaknesses of her sex as 
well as its virtues; nor could it be said of her, in a matter in 
which, as she thought, her niece’s happiness was concerned, that 
though she loved Edith much, she loved honor more. 

Presently, as she watched the trio, she saw the captain draw 
aside from his two companions and make a sign to her to come 
to him, and, quitting Edith and Majuba without a word, she fol- 
lowed him to a quiet corner of the camp. 

“ You have news for me, I know, dear captain,” she exclaimed, 
excitedly, as he motioned to her to be seated. “Is it possible it 
may be good news?” 

“I rather flatter myself it is,” he answered, with a chuckle. 
“I told you a while ago, you know, that the mouse might help 
the lion, and I think I may fairly say that, after a deal of nib- 
bling, he has done it. I have made a hole in the net that held 
you and Miss Edith big enough for you both to crawl through.” 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

DEPARTURE. 

The relief the captain’s words afforded to Aunt Sophia was 
unspeakable. She had so long been accustomed to trust in him, 
and was so well aware that he never took for granted what he 
was not perfectly sure of, that she had no doubt of his good tid- 
ings. Feeling thus confident of Edith’s escape from her trou- 
bles, it was not surprising, and, indeed high time that her con- 
science should feel a twinge or two upon Tarilam’s account. 

“I thank Heaven, and I thank you, dear Captain Head, with 
all my heart,” she exclaimed, “ for this unlooked-for mercy; but 
how does the poor prince bear it?” 

“Bear it? How should he bear it? Why, like a man, of 
course.” 

Aunt Sophia looked both amazed and alarmed; she began to 
think that she had been a greal deal too sanguine; for if Tarilam 
had borne such a disappointment “like a man,” it could certainly 
not have been what she had taken it for. 

“You don’t mean to say,” she gasped, “that he does not mind 
our going away to England?” 

“ On the contrary, he likes the idea. I got the king to put it 
to him on patriotic grounds. Told him about Peter the Great 
lodging in Ratcliffe Highway, and fired his ambition.” 


DEPAETUEE. 


231 


The terrible thought struck Aunt Sophia that the captain’s 
brain had given way under the pressure of excitement. “ I don’t 
quite understand what you are talking about,” she murmured, tim- 
idly. “I was saying that I feared the poor prince would not 
much like being left behind.” 

“Left behind! Gad, I should think not! Why, of course he’s 
going with you. Then Miss Edith and he can have the banns 
put up in ship-shape fashion and be married by a bishop, if she 
likes. There will be no occasion for Mr. Ainsworth’s services, 
and our people here need not know anything about it. I think it 
will be better, under the present circumstances, that they should 
not. Don’t faint, there’s a good creature— it’s worse than crying. 
Here’s the king.” 

This was a little ruse of the captain’s to bring Aunt Sophia to 
herself, for in point of fact there was no king, and it succeeded 
to admiration. The good news she had just received, with its 
only drawback thus happily removed, had been too much for her. 
Perhaps she had never quite pictured to herself how great was 
the self-abnegation she had contemplated in remaining with Edith 
till the necessity for it was thus done away with. As soon as he 
saw she was recovered, the captain, with great good judgment, 
quitted the realms of sentiment and entered into the details of 
his scheme. 

Knowing the king’s love for his people, he had pictured to 
him the immense advantages that would flow to them from a visit 
of the prince, with some of his attendants, to England. He could 
rely upon the well-known generosity and gratitude of “John 
Company ” to send them back to Breda in a ship laden with 
every article that could be useful to the friendly islanders ; and 
in view of so vast a national boon he had ventured to urge that 
even separation from his only son would not be too great a sac- 
rifice. 

The struggle between patriotism and paternal love in Taril’s 
bosom had Wn sharp but brief, for his nature was cast not only 
in regal but heroic mould. He was well aware that if the prince 
left him as Edith’s accepted lover it would be forever. It was 
too much to expect that, after once being reunited to her own 
people, she should return of her own free-will to a barbarous and 
alien land; he knew, too, not only that Tarilam’s happiness was 
bound up in hers, but that he was fitted by nature, as no other of 
his race had ever been, to reap the benefits and enjoyments of 
civilization. His feelings were something akin to those of a fa- 
ther, full of Christian faith, who is about to lose a good and virb 
uous son by death ; he felt that he was going to a better land, and 
one more suited to his gifts. The captain, from his scanty store 
of historic knowledge, had produced the example of Peter the 
Great as one who had left his country for his country’s good, 
and shown a parallel between his case and that of Tarilam. But 
the fact was that Taril himself was a counterpart of Peter, with- 


232 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


out his vices; in all liis royal instincts as great a king, and far 
less, by nature, of a savage. 

His will bad always been a law to his offspring, and now that 
both love and duty demanded Tarilam’s obedience, it was hardly 
to be gainsaid; still, it had not been without many a pang of re- 
morse that the prince had consented to bereave his father of his 
only son. 

Aunt Sophia’s gentle nature was touched to the core by the 
captain’s recital. “What was my sacrifice, of which you made 
so much,” she exclaimed, with enthusiasm, “compared with what 
King Taril has done?” 

“ He has helped to restore the average on behalf of my sex in 
the matter of unselfishness, no doubt,” admitted the captain, “ I 
shall now view this ridiculous bone bracelet of his with less dis- 
satisfaction than I should have thought possible. They are noble 
fellows, both father and son,” 

“They are, indeed,” cried Aunt Sophia. “See, Tarilam has 
beckoned to his sister; he means to tell her what has happened 
even before he tells dear Edith, because it is she whom he is 
about to leave, and not the otlier. That is a fine trait,” 

“No doubt,” assented the captain. “Moreover, it gives you 
the opportunity of getting a word with your niece alone. Take 
her home at once, and break the good news to her. I envy you 
the sight of the sunshine it will bring into her pretty face.” 

There was excuse enough in the occurrences of the day for the 
tender gravity with which Aunt Sophia took her niece’s arm and 
led her away from the busy scene. Yet, ere they had reached 
Ladies’ Bay, and before she had spoken a word of wdiat she had 
to tell, Edith suddenly stopped, and said, in a faltering tone, 

“ I hope, dear Aunt Sophia, no attempt has been made to alter 
matters between me and Tarilam?” 

The confabulation between the king and the captain, and after- 
wards between the captain and her aunt, had not escaped her 
notice; she had made up her mind as to her future, and was un- 
willing that the “low beginnings of content ” should be inter- 
fered with by any arrangement. 

“Not altered, darling, only improved,” said Aunt Sophia, soft- 
ly; “as soon as we reach home and are quite alone, you shall 
hear all.” 

The precaution would have seemed to be unnecessary, for, to 
the narrator’s surprise and disappointment, Edith received her 
tidings not only with tranquillity, but with a calmness very like 
regret. 

“Good heavens! you are surely glad, my dear, that we are going 
back to old England?” exclaimed Aunt Sophia, with amazement. 

“Yes, I am glad. I am most sincerely glad. Do not think 
me ungrateful, Sophy dear, but remember, it will not be ‘ old Eng- 
land ’ to me.” 

In the other’s natural joy at their unexpected enfranchisement, 


DEPARTURE. 


233 


she had almost forgotten the reasons, though they had been stated 
to her, and she had admitted their force, whicli had made exile so 
tolerable and even welcome to her niece, and this reply struck 
her almost as a revelation. If she had known that those words, 
“I am most sincerely glad,” were uttered for her own sake, and 
not from the heart of the speaker, she would have been even 
more distressed; for the simple fact was that her tidings were 
unwelcome. 

Edith had indeed made up her mind to be an exile under con- 
ditions as unpalatable, save for the devotion of her betrothed, 
as were ever offered to woman; but to return to the country of 
Charles Layton with Tarilam as her accepted lover was an alter- 
native that seemed more distasteful still. The objections to it 
were innumerable, and they seemed to her in that short instant 
to gather themselves together and press against it with superla- 
tive force; but it was impossible that Aunt Sophia should be al- 
lowed to sacrifice herself a second time for her sake, as it was 
certain she would do if her niece elected to stay. After this one 
reminder, therefore — wrung from her in that moment of distressed 
surprise — of the changed conditions under which she was about 
to revisit her native land, Edith uttered no word of dissent or 
discontent. If her behavior evinced less satisfaction than was 
expected of her, it was set down by the captain to her credit, as 
being unwilling to exhibit her joy in a case where her lover, in 
the persons of his father and his sister, was so great a loser. 

King Taril and Majuba, themselves so careful of the feelings 
of those they loved, naturally took the same view; if there was 
one other who was not so easily deceived, the modesty of his 
requirements in all that concerned the object of his devotion at 
least made him easily contented. 

It was his humble hope that, with the greater advantages that 
would now be open to him, he might in time make himself less 
unworthy of her. 

The feelings of the tenants of Ladies’ Bay, including King Taril, 
now its constant visitor, were indeed in strong contrast to those 
of the other inhabitants of Faybur. The joy and excitement 
which possessed the latter, however, prevented them from taking 
notice of the fact; and the engagement between the two young 
people — though it was known, of course, that the prince and his 
attendants were to visit England — was as much a secret to the 
whole ship’s company, save the captain, as heretofore. 

In the mean time the preparations for embarkation went on 
apace. The vessel which was to carry the castaways home, and 
which they fitly named the Deliverance, \ViXd everything on board 
that they required except provisions. Just as though they were 
in London, and were moving into a furnished house, they had 
only to transfer to it their personal effects. As to stores, in a 
few weeks she was so laden with supplies from King Taril’s 
bounty, and also with the voluntary offerings of the kindly Bre- 


234 


A PEINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


dans, that there was some doubt whether she would be able to 
leave the harbor into which she had entered with such ease. 
When the day came for their departure there were at least five 
hundred canoes in the little bay, full of natives come to bid them 
farewell, and each with some offering by way of remembrance; 
in vain were they told that there was no room for more. “ Only 
this from me; only this from me, ’’was the general cry, accom- 
panied by such supplicatory gestures and tearful eyes as almost 
made the sailors themselves exhibiti similar emotion. 

Tlie parting between Taril and the prince touched every heart. 
He begged him to look upon the captain as another father, and 
the latter, on his part, assured the king that he would do his best 
to repay the debt of gratitude he owed him by every kindness to 
his son. 

“I am well aware,” were the king’s last words, “that in the 
distant country he is about to visit he will be exposed not only 
to danger (from which I look to you to guard him) but to dis- 
eases that are unknown to us here, and from which he may even 
die.” Here he w^as silent for a little, restraining his deep emotion 
with native dignity. “I have prepared my thoughts for this. 
You will be kind to him, I know, in sickness, but death you can- 
not arrest. I shall not blame you.” Then, turning with a pathetic 
smile to Edith, he added, “Nor though you, like Death (and yet 
so unlike him), are taking my son away, pretty one, do I blame 
you. ” 

Such a farewell between persons apparently so alien and in- 
congruous was probably never seen. Edith and Aunt Sophia were 
bathed in tears. The captain himself was so moved that he could 
hardly give the necessary orders for setting sail. As the vessel 
drew ahead, the natives whose presents had been declined pad- 
died in front of it and threw on board their yams and cocoa-nuts 
and flowers, with renewed expressions of affection. “ We are hap- 
py because you are going home,” they cried, “but very unhappy 
to see you go away.” The king stood on the shore, majestic and 
erect, waving his hand, and apparently unmoved; but it might 
be almost said that the whole nation was in tears, and it was with 
diflSculty that the sailors themselves found voice for their three 
cheers. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

HUMILIATIONS. 

The change in the fortunes of those who manned the Deliver- 
ance was so great and unlooked-for that it seemed to them like a 
transformation scene upon the stage, in the reality of which they 
could scarcely believe. It put them all, save one — Mr. Bates, 
who still nursed his wrongs and showed in every way he dared 
his antipathy to the captain— in the highest good-humor. They 


HUMILIATIONS. 


235 


felt like men buried alive who suddenly find themselves restored 
to fresh air and sunshine; or like school -boys who were going 
home before their time, in consequence of a providential outbreak 
of scarlatina. They counted the days that must intervene before, 
under the most favorable conditions, they could hope to reach 
their native land, and yet found none of them too long. 

To Edith Norbury neither the future nor the present wore so 
rose - colored a hue. Yet the change in her position was far 
greater than in their case, and considering what she had es- 
caped, migl\t well be considered more advantageous. The revo- 
lution in her fortunes had been twofold. A few weeks ago she 
had looked forward (though certainly without effusion) to a new 
life, the drawbacks to which would have been intensified by back- 
ward glances at the old one. She was now returning to her old 
life, but under such circumstances as made her regard it with dis- 
relish, and even dismay. 

It was not only that the prospect of revisiting England awoke 
a thousand tender and regretful memories which she had believed 
were laid asleep forever, and would doubtless have so lain had she 
remained in exile, but tliat Tarilam himself lost something of that 
attraction which, though deep and genuine enough, had doubtless 
owed something to his position and surroundings. He was as 
gentle, kind, and devoted to her as ever; the gracious simplicity 
of his nature made him as much the idol of the ship’s company as 
of his own attendants; but he was no longer the enchanted prince 
who had saved her from the teeth of the shark and the poison of 
the arrow. The wardrobe of Mr. Marstou had been laid under 
contribution for him, and, in his European clothes, he looked not 
only as handsome, but almost as much to the manner born as in 
his native gear. But for his speech, as the captain said, he might 
easily have been mistaken for a young English gentleman of birth 
and breeding who had spent some years in the tropics. 

This easy assumption of her own nationality, which was, in 
fact, the result of natural grace, was somehow disagreeable to 
Edith; it reminded her of what she would fain have forgotten; 
if he did not absolutely become in her eyes (what, being so differ- 
ent, he had hitherto never been) the successful rival of her dead 
lover, he suggested rivalry where, with all her regard for him, 
she could not brook it. What was very curious, his unlikeness 
to the character he had thus involuntarily assumed distressed her 
even more than his aptitude for it. The ignorance which he had 
displayed in Faybur had amused her, and had even been a source 
of attraction ; it had pleased her to be his tutor. _ There had 
been something touching in the simplicity of one so highly placed 
and endowed with such splendid physical gifts. But on board 
the Deliverance, and still more when the ship touched land, and 
he was first introduced to the scenes of civilization, this ignorance 
of the prince, which he exhibited without the least reserve, filled 
her with vexation and even shame. 


230 


A PRIlsrCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Their first port, as it happened, was St. Helena, a modest exam- 
ple enough of a civilized community; but what he saw there — 
indeed, it might almost be said all he saw there — excited in him 
the rapture of a child. That he had never heard of ISTapoleon 
Bonaparte was nothing surprising — some of his English compan- 
ions had perhaps but little advantage of him in that matter; but 
the state of astonishment into which he was thrown by the sight 
of a man on horseback naturally reflected itself in all beholders. 
He had never before beheld any animal with four legs, and the 
spectacle of such an abnormal creature in combination with a 
man aroused in him — only too naturally — the wildest amazement. 
To discover that this portent — or at least the equine portion of it— 
declined to eat oranges, filled him with the liveliest disappointment. 

His eye was as observant as his mind, and both were bewildered. 
With all his good-sense it was impossible that, placed in so novel 
a position, he could have the sense of proportion. The present 
of a string of glass beads threw him into ecstasy. He felt that he 
had in his hands the wealth of the Indies, and besought Captain 
Head to hire a vessel to take them to Breda, the cost of which he 
offered to repay by three of them, as the knights of old used to 
give largesse by tearing off a link of their chains. The only 
drawback to his childish happiness at the spectacle of any novelty 
w^as that the king, his father, could not also behold it. 

Though he had learned to write after a fashion, he preferred 
to keep his memoranda in the Breda fashion, which was by knots 
upon a string. When anything struck him as extraordiuary he 
made a knot of it ; and as almost everything did so strike him, he 
not only soon came to an end of his string, but, to his great dis- 
tress, often forgot what had aroused his curiosity. Upon being 
taken to see a school, and shown its maps and books, he exclaimed, 
pathetically, “ Alas! 1 am the youngest child here.” When asked 
to exhibit his native accomplishments he would comply with 
willingness, and in all those of an athletic nature delighted his 
audience; but with the same good-nature he would comply with 
a request for a native song, than which nothing more discordant 
and barbarous ever fell on human ears. It is unnecessary to mul- 
tiply the occasions on which his extreme simplicity was mani- 
fested. Its exhibition, though treated with the utmost delicacy 
by those about him, could not but excite the ridicule of strangers, 
and every smile it evoked was to Edith a bitter humiliation. With 
woman’s art and woman’s chivalry she concealed this from the 
world at large; but from her relative and companion, though she 
never spoke of it to her, she could not conceal it. Ten times a 
day did Aunt Sophia wish themselves back in Faybur, and, had it 
been possible, would, for her niece’s sake, have loyally returned 
thither, though they were within a few weeks’ sail of home; for, 
as she could not but reflect, if Edith felt her lover’s deficiencies 
even now, how much more distressingly obvious must they become 
in England. 


HUMILIATIONS. 


237 


When alone with him, indeed, the affectionate admiration which 
she never ceased to feel for him was as complete and undisturbed 
as ever. It even pleased her as of old when he came to her in his 
artless way for information about this and that; it was only when 
his shortcomings were exposed to others that they gave her any 
sense of pain. But in that case the exhibition of his very virtues 
would sometimes distress and grate upon her. His filial love and 
duty often caused him to select objects intrinsically valueless, but 
whose novelty took his fancy, to send to his father, including even 
the furniture of the dinner-table; and by way of apology for a 
choice that seemed to need it, he would explain in his simple fash- 
ion how in Breda the king himself ate off the leaf of the cocoa- 
nut, drank out of its shell, and used the husk for a napkin. 

To the philosophic mind such details would have been of no 
account, or been even interesting; but Edith, who was no phi- 
losopher, shrank from them — nay, she even congratulated herself 
on the fact that her engagement to the son of this too simple sov- 
ereign was as yet unproclaimed, and then flushed with shame at 
her cowardice. 

The captain, as it happened, unconscious of Edith’s associations 
with the place, decided to land at Portsmouth, which was a terri- 
ble trial to her. The ship passed within a stone’s-throw of the 
very rampart where Charles Layton’s interview with her had 
taken place, and where she had exchanged with him those vows 
of eternal fidelity. That scene was separated by what might have 
seemed a lifetime of adventure and strange experience, yet it 
seemed to her to have taken place but yesterday. 

“Your hand* is cold, my darling,” said Tarilam, who stood 
beside her, lost in admiration of the ships of war, the batteries on 
shore, and the fluttering flags in harbor. It was cold, indeed, as 
death, and it was with death her thoughts were busy. 

The captain had proposed that the two ladies should be lodged 
at the hotel till he could communicate with the authorities at the 
India House as regarded the prince, but they preferred to remain 
on shipboard. On the fourth day the little party started for Lon- 
don by coach, or, as Tarilam expressed it, in “a house on wheels, 
which was run away with by horses.” It amazed him that even 
at night it should still go on, and that while it went one way the 
houses, fields, and trees should be going the other. 

It was arranged that until Edith’s affairs could be looked into 
she and her aunt should take up their abode with the captain and 
an unmarried sister of his in London who kept house for him 
when on shore. It was their wish to live in the strictest retire- 
ment, which in Tarilam’s case was impossible. The report of his 
arrival made no little public stir, and a house was taken for him 
and his attendants in the neighborhood by the East India Com- 
pany, who provided for their entertainment on a very handsome 
scale. His curiosity for seeing things, as well as the invitations— 
some of them from persons of the highest rank— which he was 


238 


A TEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


compelled to accept, kept him much abroad; and although Edith 
never failed to welcome him with dutiful affection, his absence 
was, on the whole, a relief to her. What he had to tell her— and 
which he told with all the confidence of one who is sure of sym- 
pathy in his hearer — was unpalatable, if not absolutely distasteful 
to her. He was eloquent on matters which to her were not only 
common events, but things in w'hich she took no interest (there 
were few things indeed that now had interest for her) — of the 
kindness shown him by the great, which in her eyes was some- 
tliiug worse than condescension, or of his popularity with the 
crowd, which he took for the national good-will. She was con- 
scious, though she never confessed it even to herself, that while 
her regard for him was as great as ever, her return to England 
had been the death-blow to that growing affection which, had she 
remained in Faybur, might have blossomed into the perfect flower 
of love. Every familiar scene awakened memories of the man 
she had loved and lost, and seemed to reproach her for her infi- 
delity to him. The spring of life was broken within her, and all 
her remaining strength was taxed to its uttermost to conceal the 
fracture. 

Fortunately, her hostess, a kind and old-fashioned woman, pen- 
etrated with a sense of the superior social position of her guests, 
left them very much to themselves; and with Aunt Sophia Edith 
had, at all events, no necessity to act a part. She could be silent 
without fear of questioning, and, even if she aroused suspicion of 
how matters stood with her, was at least secure from the expres- 
sion of it. As to her duty of keeping faith with Tarilam, she never 
wavered in it for a moment, but sometimes in her heart of hearts 
she pondered whether she would not have welcomed death itself 
as a relief from the obligation. She had left but few friends in 
England, her associates having been limited to the circle around 
her uncle and cousin, with the members of which she had little in 
common ; and through a mistake on their part, with which she was 
at the time unacquainted, but the result of which she accepted 
gladly, these did not now attempt to renew their acquaintance 
with her. 

While in this state of comparative solitude, with thoughts now 
dwelling with remorseful regret upon the past, now recoiling with 
vague foreboding from the future, a misfortune suddenly fell 
upon her, or rather upon their little household, which for the time 
swallowed up, like an Aaron’s rod, her own brood of miseries and 
apprehensions. 


BUliNLNG HEl^ BOATS, 


230 


CHAPTER XLV. 

BUIINING HER BOATS'. 

Captain Head was arrested one morning, in his own house, 
upon the charge of murdering one Matthew Murdoch, a British 
subject, and carried before a magistrate. Tlie thing was done 
without a word of warning; but it did not take him altogether by 
surprise, nor did he need to be told that the person who had sworn 
the criminal information against him was one Richard Bates. 
He knew the ex-mate to be of the most vindictive nature, and that 
he had nursed his hate to keep it warm ever since he had been 
deprived of his rank; while as to the accusation itself he felt his 
conscience clear, and that no jury of his fellow-countrymen would 
think otherwise. But with the womenfolk matters were very 
different. For them the catastrophe was as unexpected and tre- 
mendous as a thunder bolt falling from a cloudless sky. They 
had that intuitive dread and doubt of the law, even in the case of 
the most innocent person, which appertains to their sex, and with 
much more justification than belongs to some of its other instincts. 

Miss Head, in particular, who was, of course, less acquainted 
with the facts of the matter than her guests, was almost out of 
her mind with terror, and the spectacle of her wretchedness 
afflicted them almost as much as the calamity itself. The captain 
had done his best to comfort them, assuring them of his ultimate 
acquittal, but had been obliged to tell them that they would not 
see him at home again, as murder was not a bailable offence, till 
his trial was over. His parting from them was painful in the 
extreme, and their joy was proportionately greater when, in a few 
hours, tlie good captain returned, though not, as they fondly 
hoped on seeing him, a free man. The magistrate had come to 
the conclusion that the charge of murder could not be maintained, 
and that of manslaughter had been substituted for it. The cap- 
tain’s bail had been fixed at a considerable sum; but so far from 
there having been any difficulty in finding it, many persons of 
good position had at once offered themselves as his security. He 
had never made any secret of the punishment he had been com- 
pelled to inflict upon Murdoch, both as a murderer and one whose 
treachery had endangered the safety of the whole island commu- 
nity; and his conduct had the approbation not only of all uphold- 
ers of authority, but of the public at large. His accuser, Mr. 
Bates, had had a proportionately ill reception at the police court 
— so much so, indeed, that he had to be escorted home. 

Poor Miss Head was not only greatly consoled by this intelli- 
gence, and by the contemptuous indifference her brother dis- 
played with respect to what was laid to his charge, but found a 


240 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


considerable satisfaction in his popularity. If everything, as she 
was now assured, was sure to go right, she was not altogether un- 
willing that his merits should be brought into public prominence, 
even through a prosecution. 

To Edith, on the contrary, this reflection was anything but wel- 
come. Though there was no likelihood of her being called as a 
witness to anything that had taken place at Faybur, it was only 
too likely that her name would be introduced at the trial, in which 
case a publicity would be thrust upon her which would be pain- 
ful to the last degree. Upon the whole, she had made up her 
mind that, should this unfortunately come to pass, she would 
prefer to return with Tarilam to his own country in the ship that 
the East India Company were fitting out and loading with every 
kind of useful present, to carry his attendants back to Breda. 

Of this, indeed, she had as yet said nothing, though for very 
different reasons, either to himself or to Aunt Sophia. In the 
former case, though she knew that such a proposition would be 
hailed with delight by her lover, it would necessitate her imme- 
diate union with him, from which, in spite of gratitude and duty 
and affectionate regard, she shrank with something more than re- 
luctance; in the latter, she knew that such a course would meet 
with the most vehement opposition; in fact, it was quite possi- 
ble that Aunt Sophia, in her disinterested devotion, would insist 
upon sharing her voluntary exile — a step which she could never 
permit. 

The more she thought of the matter the more this determination 
grew upon her; it would be held, as she well knew, by those about 
her as little less than suicide, if such a plan, so outrageous, seemed 
preferable to her to becoming Tarilam’s wife in England — if, in 
other words, that prospect was so intolerable to her, they would 
argue that it behooved her to give him up. Perhaps, indeed, it 
might be so; but in that case to treat him so would be in the 
highest degree dishonorable, and she preferred suicide to dis- 
honor. 

One thing, however, notwithstanding she had come to this con- 
clusion, she had not yet persuaded herself to do, and it became 
imperative that she should do it, namely, to destroy the mementos 
she still possessed of her drowned lover. Had he been alive, and 
their engagement been broken off, she would, of course, have re- 
turned to him those loving letters, those little priceless gifts, 
which mark, like mile-stones upon the highway, the flowery path 
of a girl’s love. She had also his portrait, drawn by herself on 
board the Oaiiges before their arrival at the Cape. They were 
sacred relics, but they were very far from helping the devotee. 
To open her desk and look at them was terrible to her, and almost 
made her falter on the road to which honor pointed; she felt 
that the very possession of them made it harder and more thorny 
for her. To burn them would be, as it were, to burn her boats, 
and by making retreat, even in thought, impossible, to nerve her 


A MYSTERY. 


241 


for her duty ; but to do so seemed, nevertheless, an act of sacri- 
lege. To keep them was disloyalty to the man to whom she was 
betrothed; to destroy them was a wrong to the memory of the 
only man (as she now knew but too well) whom she had ever 
really loved. 

Whether Tarilam was aware of her possessing these mementos 
or not she did not know. She had certainly never spoken of 
them to him herself; but in the early days of their acquaintance, 
when they had been as frank and familiar with him as though he 
had been a child, it was by no means impossible that Aunt Sophia 
had done so; his interest in all Edith had done had been from the 
first excessive; and it was quite likely that in proof of her artistic 
skill, or in illustration of her past history, he had been shown 
Charles Layton’s portrait. At all eveuts, it was a possession, 
however precious, perilous to her own peace of mind, and one 
which might cruelly disturb even that of her patient and unex- 
acting lover. 

One morning when Aunt Sophia chanced to be from home, she 
took it from her desk, resolving to destroy it. It would have 
been wiser, perhaps, to have done so without looking at it, but 
she could not resist one glance of farewell. As a remembrance, 
alas! it was useless to her, for the memory of the man it por- 
trayed was only too present with her at all times; but to come to 
the determination of destroying it had cost her many a bitter 
pang. As she gazed upon it, the occasion on which she had 
painted it returned to her in its every detail. The cloudless sky, 
the boundless sea, the quiet corner of the deck in which she had 
established herself with her painting implements by the side of 
her lover, his smiling and expectant face — for the moment she 
lived only in the past. It was not another day that was passing 
over her head, but the same day. But her eyes, which had then 
been lit with joy and love, were now dimmed with tears; her 
ears, that had drunk in his loving laughter, were now dulled to 
outward things. There was a gentle knock at the door, but she 
heard it not; a tender tone that murmured, “My darling!” and 
then a hand was lightly placed upon her shoulder. She started 
up with a cry of alarm, and beheld Tarilam. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

A MYSTERY. 

“Forgive me for having startled you, dear Edie,” said the 
prince, with a quiet smile. “ I am earlier than usual. I have 
just seen a dear friend of ours, Lewis Conolly. He has been sum- 
moned as a witness in the captain’s trial.” 

The midshipman had not been in London since their arrival, 
having gone dowij at once to Pevoushire, where his mother lived; 
lb 


242 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


and, under other circumstances, the news of his presence in town 
would have awakened Editli’s liveliest interest. But at present 
one thought monopolized her mind. 

Had Tarilam recognized the picture for what it was? That he 
had seen it and her tears was certain, for nothing escaped his 
eyes; but as she put it back in her desk with as indifferent an air 
as she could assume, he had made no observation upon it. In 
any ordinary case this would only have been in accordance with 
his usual delicacy of mind. He never pried into her emotions. 
If, on the other hand, he had recognized the portrait, his very de- 
votion to her would, she felt sure, have forbidden him to ignore 
it. He would have said something kind as regarded his dead 
rival, something modest of his own pretensions to fill his place. 

This conviction gave her a sense of inexpressible relief, and 
enabled her to converse with him with a calmness which would 
have otherwise been beyond her powers. The topic of the trial 
formed naturally the chief subject of his conversation. The cap- 
tain, he said, whom he had just seen, seemed more troubled in his 
mind about it than he had hitherto been, and less inclined to dis- 
cuss it. He was not, however, aware that anything new had 
come to his knowledge to give him apprehensions as to the result. 
Conolly had spoken of the matter in the most sanguine terms 
after an interview with the solicitors for the defence; he had to 
see them again in the forenoon, after which he would do himself 
the pleasure of calling on the ladies. 

Again and again during the interview did Edith reproach her- 
self for her lack of interest in what, on every ground of gratitude 
and regard, should have been of so much importance to her; if 
the captain had been in greater danger it would, she felt a just 
confidence, have placed her own affairs in the background; but 
as matters stood, her mind was preoccupied with them. This did 
not arise, however, from personal considerations; though her hand 
lay without response in that of her companion, though she an- 
swered him only by monosyllables, it was of him she was think- 
ing, and not of herself, or only of herself, as far as her future was 
concerned with his. In a few weeks, in a month at furthest, if 
her purpose of returning with him should be carried out, she 
would become this man’s wife. With that picture she had just 
put away in her thoughts, instead of his own loving image, would 
it be right in her so to do? W as it fair to /mn? It was with this 
scruple that she was occupied. 

It was certain that Tarilam was not ignorant of the effect which 
the revisiting her own country had had upon Edith’s feelings, 
and doubtless to this cause he assigned her present emotion. He 
asked so little of her in return for his complete devotion that al- 
most anything seemed to suffice him. Should she confess all, it 
would, she was^eonvinced, only make him miserable upon her ac- 
count, not upon his own. He was content to be second in the 
matrimonial race, and even a bad second, but absolutely to say 


A MYSTERY. 


243 


him “nay” would be, she felt, to break his heart. Thinking of 
all these things, she parted from him with more of tenderness 
than usual, and he from her with a corresponding show of grate- 
ful affection. 

The quiet household had of late been much disturbed by call- 
ers, who came upon business in connection with the coming trial, 
and that morning they seemed to be more numerous than ever. 
Once Edith heard the captain’s voice raised in a higher tone than 
was usual to him, after which there was a sudden silence, and 
once, as she was almost certain, the voice of Lewis Conolly. As 
he did not come to her, however, this could hardly be, and in her 
own importunate reflections the circumstance was soon forgotten ; 
she thought it strange that Aunt Sophia’s return was so long de- 
ferred, but that, too, passed away from her mind; and when at 
last her relative made her appearance there was a look in her face 
that banished all thoughts of her delay. 

“ What has happened. Aunt Sophia?” cried Edith, the chord 
of self vanishing in an instant at the spectacle of such panic and 
sorrow in another; “there are tears in your kind eyes. I am sure 
that you have heard ill news.” 

“No, no, it is nothing,” she answered, hastily. “I am a little 
tired and upset, that’s all.” 

“You have seen an old friend?” 

“Who told you so?” faltered Aunt Sophia. The inquiry was 
one of indifference, but not the tone, which was faint and even 
awe-struck. 

“Well, I guessed it,” said Edith, cheerfully. “You had al- 
ways a weakness for Master Conolly, I know. Tarilam told me 
he was coming to see me ; and, indeed, an hour ago or so I 
thought I heard his voice down-stairs; but as you were not with 
me, 1 suppose he did not think it worth liis while.” 

“Yes, that was it, no doubt,” replied xluut Sophia. Her assent 
to so monstrous an explanation— for, as we know, the midship- 
man was devoted to Edith — was obviously mechanical. She 
looked the very picture of woe and terror. 

“Aunt Sophia, I must know what has happened,” exclaimed 
Edith; “whatever it is, I can bear it better armed in the armor 
of my own selfish thoughts than you have done. Tarilam is well, 
I know; I see you alive and well; the captain is safe within- 
doors; and that is all my world, save Conolly. Some misfort- 
une, then, must have befallen the dear boy. Why did he not 
come to see me?” 

“He was very much cut up and distressed by his interview 
with the captain, and he did not wish you to be a witness to his 
weakness.” • 

Edith shook her head. “You are concealing something from 
me,” she said. “ If there is sorrow in this house, it is fit and 
rig'ht that I should share it.” She rose from her seat aud moved 
towards the door. 


244 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“For Heaven’s sake, Edie, stay where you are!” cried Aunt 
Sophia, seizing her by the arm. At the same moment the front 
door closed with a clang; some one had quitted the house. Edith 
quietly released herself from Aunt Sophia’s hold, who, indeed, 
no longer sought to restrain her, and went out to the top of the 
stairs. “ Captain Head,” she called over the balusters, ‘ ‘ will you 
let me have a word with you?” 

There had been voices below-stairs when she spoke, but there 
now fell a sudden pause. Then the captain’s cheery tones re- 
plied, “By all means. Miss Edith.” There was, nevertheless, a 
hesitation in his heavy step Avhich did not escape her notice. 
His face had a smile upon it, but also a look of anxiety, as she 
thought, and even of pain. 

“ Where is Mr. Couolly?” were her first words. 

The smile broadened on the other’s honest features. “Why, 
in this very house,” he answered. “ The young dog came on 
purpose to see you, but he had a fit of shyness. Come up, sir!” 
he bellowed out as if he were on shipboard; “Miss Edith knows 
you are here, and wants to see you.” 

“ Of course I want to see him,” said Edith. Then the midship- 
man’s light step, but surely slower and with less of spring in it 
than usual, came up the stairs. 

“You naughty boy, why have I need to send for you?” she ex- 
claimed, holding out both her hands. 

“I have been with the captain and his lawyers,” answered the 
boy, glancing apprehensively at his chief. 

“And I suppose they want you to commit perjury,” said Edith, 
smiling. “If that is so, you must not look so pale and fright- 
ened when you are in the witness-box. It was very good of you 
to write to me about your mother. I would have given a thou- 
sand pounds to have seen your first meeting. Yet home doesn’t 
seem to suit you, my dear boy. You don’t look half so well as 
you did in Faybur.” 

“He doesn’t like the notion of going into court,” explained 
the captain. “My counsel, Mr. What’s-his-name — ” 

“Baring,” interposed Aunt Sophia. 

“Just so. Mr. Baring has been impressing so strongly upon 
him the importance of his evidence that I believe he thinks he is 
going to be tried instead of me. ” 

“That seems very injudicious,” remarked Edith. “Who is 
this Mr. Baring? I thought you had engaged Mr. Collins.” 

“That is our leader; Mr. Baring is the junior. Our solicitor 
has the greatest confidence in him.” 

There was a long silence. In spite of what had been told her, 
Edith had an uncomfortable feeling still, derived from the man- 
ner of her companions, that there was something amiss. This 
could now, she felt sure, be connected with thb trial alone, from 
which, perhaps, this Mr. Baring had expressed an opinion that 
ghe should not be absent, The testimony of a womnn— and of a 


A MYSTERY. 


245 


yoimg one— she had often heard, had always a certain weight with 
a jury. 

“ I hope, dear Captain Head,” she said, “ that out of considera- 
tion for my feelings you are not throwing a chance away. It 
would be idle to say that to have to appear in court would not 
be distressing to me; but what would pain me ten times more 
would be the reflection that my absence from the witness-box had 
been a disadvantage to you.” 

“It is absolutely out of the question,” put in Aunt Sophia, 
positively. 

“ I am speaking for myself, Sophy,” continued Edith, quietly; 
“there would, I can easily understand, be no need for both of us 
to give evidence; but, so far as I am concerned, my poor services 
are unreservedly at your disposal.” 

“No, no, no,” cried Aunt Sophia. 

“ I am speaking to Captain Head,” continued Edith, decisively. 
“I am quite sure there is a hitch somewhere, and in some matter 
in which I am concerned. Unless you assure me upon your hon- 
or that Mr. Baring has not advised my being subpeenaed, I shall 
write to your solicitor and demand to be put in the witness-box.” 

“I thank you, dear Miss Edith, from the bottom of my heart,” 
said the captain, greatly moved ; “ but, upon my honor, Mr. Baring 
never expressed any such opinion.” 

“ But he said something about me. Mr. Conolly, you were pres- 
ent, and will tell me the truth. What did he say?” 

If ever a midshipman looked embarrassed it was Master Lewis 
Conolly. He glanced at the captain, he glanced at Aunt Sophia, 
he glanced at the ceiling. “ Well, he talked a great deal about 
you. Miss Edith, as indeed we all did,” at last he stammered. 

“But about the trial?” 

“He never said one word about you in connection with the 
trial at all.” In a midshipman’s theology there is said to be an 
eleventh commandment: “Tell a lie, tell a good one, and stick 
to it.” Had Edith heard of this dogma she would perhaps have 
given it a personal application, but, fortunately, she had not. The 
lad had a fearless and open countenance, which is also a great 
advantage in such cases. There is a color, too, which rises to the 
check of fibbing youth when his word is doubted that may well 
be mistaken by any one short of a school-master for virtuous in- 
dignation. 

“You are a gentleman, and would not deceive a poor girl, I 
know, who is putting her trust in you,” said Edith, pathetically. 

“ Indeed, indeed, 1 would not,” replied the lad, with preco- 
cious naturalness. Whetlier he was lying or not, even the intelli- 
gent reader, nay, even the author himself, had he been present, 
could not have told for certain. It is enough to say that Edith 
Norbury believed him and was satisfied. 

It is said, and with more truth tliau belongs to similar observa- 
tions, which too often have their source in cynicism and even 


246 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


brutality, that among the few advantages the poor have over 
the rich is that the necessity for labor prevents them dwelling 
upon their domestic griefs. The thoughts which are occupied 
in decking the graves of their dead darlings with flowers in the 
one case must be devoted in the other to providing for the living 
little ones that are still left to them. They have no time to dwell 
upon their loss. Something akin to this cruel mercy takes place 
when some bitter sorrow of our own is broken in upon by a ca- 
lamity, especially if it be short and sharp, that threatens a friend. 
Until that has been settled one way or another, we cease to brood 
upon our private woe. 

Thus, in the approaching trial of Captain Head, Edith Norbury 
found a partial mitigation of her own distress of mind. She dis- 
cussed it with Aunt Sophia in all its bearings, and in her interest 
and anxiety omitted to notice how much of the talk fell to her 
share, and how little to that of her companion. What helped her 
very much was the decision she had Anally arrived at to leave 
England as Tarilam’s wife. To do so before the captain’s fate 
had been decided upon would, she felt, have been impossible; but 
there were, as usual, delays in fitting out the vessel that was to 
take his attendants back to their own country; and though the 
time would be but short to make arrangements for her marriage, 
in the mean time it would be sufflcient. The shorter, indeed, it 
was, now that she had nerved herself to go through with it, the 
better. The chief person concerned would hail her resolve with 
rapture; and the less opportunity Aunt Sophia should have to 
oppose her plan the less pain she herself would suffer in carry- 
ing it out. She had burned Charles Layton’s picture, lest by any 
unhappy chance, such as had so nearly taken place already, Tari- 
lani should come to the knowledge of her possession of it; his 
letters and his gifts had shared the same fate. She was a free 
woman, bound to the past by nothing save her heartstrings. 

It was a terrible exception; yet how many young women, as 
she sometimes reflected, were in even a worse plight than herself. 
It was at worst to a dead man, and not to a living one — to a 
memory, and not to some true heart still beating with passionate 
but fruitless love for her — that she was about to prove faithless. 
And the wooer she had accepted, though, alas! unloved, was 
worthy of her love, if she could but have given it to him. He had 
won her gratitude, her admiration, her affection; he would prove 
in all things, she felt sure, that are commonly ascribed to such a 
rehxtion, the best of husbands to her. 

Yet the decision she had finally arrived at of returning with 
him to Breda was only one degree less intolerable to her tlian its 
sole alternative to become his wife in England. In vain she 
called to mind his virtues, his nobility of mind, his generosity of 
disposition, his tender consideration, his simplicity — which to 
abuse would be like deceiving a trustful child— and his absolute 
devotion. It was a noble picture; but on the living wall of mem- 


A MYSTERY. 


247 


ory there hung the likeness of Charles Layton, and she had not 
the power to remove it, far less to substitute the other’s portrait 
in its place. 

Three days had now elapsed since she had last seen Tarilam, 
and it was significant indeed of the state of her feelings towards 
him that this circumstance not only awakened in her no anxiety, 
but was a positive relief to her. Hitherto he had always spent 
some time with her at least once a day; his absence was there- 
fore the more unaccountable, and, what was almost as surprising, 
Aunt Sophia had not remarked upon it. What was also curious, 
and would, under other circumstances, have certainly not escaped 
Edith’s notice, was that, although the captain’s trial was now close 
at hand, her aunt talked very little about it, but made her niece’s 
affairs the chief topic of her conversation. 

Mr. Ernest Norbury had, it appeared, embezzled almost all her 
fortune, but in such a manner as was not beyond the reach of re- 
covery, and active steps, she was told, were being taken to this 
end. To Edith — bound for Breda — this was a matter, indeed, of 
almost complete indifference, but it was necessary to feign some 
interest in it. 

“Who is it,” she inquired one morning, “that has taken this 
sanguine view of my affairs?” 

“Mr. Baring; he is a very capable person, and I am told he is 
doing wonders for you.” 

“i should have thought he had had his hands full of a more 
important matter,” was the quiet reply; “ but I am much obliged 
to him for the interest he is so good as to take in me.” 

“ He does take a great interest in you, no doubt, from what the 
captain has told him.” 

“It w«uld be ungracious not to acknowledge it. The next 
time he comes here I shall be glad to see him.” 

“ Well, he has been here only once,” stammered Aunt Sophia; 
“the captain’s business is always transacted at his chambers. I 
scarcely think — ” 

“My dear Sophy, you need not distress yourself about this 
paragon,” put in Edith, with a faint smile. “ I dare say we shall 
both survive it, even if we never meet.” Then, after a pause, 
“When does the ship sail for Breda?” she asked, abruptly. 

“Immediately. No; by-the-bye, the day has been put off in- 
definitely, but soon ; that is why Tarilam has not been here of 
late. He told me to tell you, if you should express surprise at 
it, that he has been so much engaged in seeing about her lading. 
The company are behaving very generously, aiul he has-only to 
ask for what he wants, and thinks will be of service to his people.” 

“I must know the date for certain,” said Edith, earnestly. Her 
face was deadly pale; her hand was pressing upon her heart, as 
though to suppress some inward pain. “ I must know exactly 
when the ship sails.” 

Aunt Sophia herself was almost equally agitated, and indeed 


248 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


that her companion had made no answer to her reference to 
Tarilam might well have shocked her. “I will hud it out for 
you,” she faltered. 

“Please do, dear; it is important, for I mean to go in that ship.” 

“You! Great heavens 1” exclaimed Auut Sophia, starting to 
her feet. “You must be mad to say so.” 

“No, I am not mad,” returned the girl, with a quiet distinct- 
ness that somehow seemed worse than desperation," but only very 
unhappy. Do not make me more so, Sophy darling, by attempt- 
ing to alter what is my hxed determination. I am quite resolved 
to marry Tarilam at once and return with him to Breda. Of 
course such a step seems terrible to you, it does to me; but to re- 
main here as his wife would be impossible for me. Yes, that is 
the truth, which I confess to you, and to you alone, because noth- 
ing less will convince you of the necessity of what I am about to 
do.” 

“He must never, never know it,” gasped Aunt Sophia, reply- 
ing, as it seemed, to some inward thought rather than to the 
other’s words. 

“Know it! Heaven forbid! If you tell him what I say — I 
mean about my being unhappy and not loving him as he deserves 
to be loved— I will never forgive you to my dying day. Not to 
speak of it; never to let him feel how short I fall of what I should 
be to him; that is the least I owe him.” 

Her confession, long considered, long delayed, had been made, 
as such things often are, on the impulse of the moment. Per- 
haps the news that the ship was sailing soon had extorted it from 
her, though she knew that it would be delayed to suit her pur- 
pose. She had rightly judged that, since she had given her rea- 
son, Aunt Sophia would cease to urge objections. Her fear had 
been rather that she might have insisted on accompanying her 
into the exile which she had formerly proposed to share with her. 
That she had not done this — since it was a sacrifice she would 
never have accepted — was so far a matter for congratulation to 
Edith; but otherwise, the effect of her communication upon her 
companion was even more deplorable than she had apprehended. 

“ He must never, never know it,” repeated Aunt Sophia, rock- 
ing herself to and fro and sobbing convulsively. ‘ ‘ He must never, 
never know it.” For the time it almost seemed that her passion- 
ate grief had deprived this faithful and tender-hearted woman of 
her senses. 

“Don’t let us talk of it, don’t let us think of it, Sophy dear,” 
said Edith, soothingly. “Till the time comes, help me to escape 
from my own miserable and selfish thoughts; I entreat you, as 
you are kind and true, to do this as the truest kindness to me. 
The trial is coming off to-morrow. How terrible it must be for 
poor Miss Head; but as for the captain, I cannot believe that so 
good a man can come to harm. How long is it likely to last?” 

“ The trial!” replied Aunt Sophia, wiping her eyes, and staring 


THE KEVELATION-. 


249 


as though an entirely new subject had been proposed for her con- 
sideration. “ ]\Ir. Baring puts it at three days at furthest. He is 
very hopeful about it. Mellor and Rudge are the only witnesses 
on the other side, and it is said that they are most unwilling ones; 
their antecedents have been discovered to be very bad. All hangs 
upon the evidence of Bates.” 

“The wretch that tried to murder Charles Layton at the 
Cape?” 

“Then you knew of that all along,” exclaimed Aunt Sophia; 
“ why did you not tell me?” 

“Because I wished to spare your brother’s memoiy. Yes, I 
knew it; yes. And if I had not known it I should know it now. 
1 have thought too much of my dear Charley of late to be ig- 
norant of aught concerning him while in life. It is only when I 
try to think of him as dead and gone that instinct fails me.” 

“ My poor darling!” 

Pity could no further go than was expressed in those three 
words of Aunt Sophia; but there was terror in her tone as well 
as pity. While she bewailed her niece’s future, it may be that she 
also doubted her strength to go through with it. Edith’s manner, 
however, was from that moment very calm and quiet, and the for- 
bidden subject was, for the present, no more alluded to. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

THE REVELATION. 

It was the first day of the trial, and all Edith Norbury’s 
thoughts were monopolized by that engrossing subject. All her 
male friends were of course in court, and she was naturally less 
surprised at Tarilam’s absence, though she had not seen him now 
for almost a week, than she had been on any of the preceding 
days. If she had not made up her mind to be his wife so soon, 
she would no doubt have felt distress and even compunction at his 
continued omission to visit her. She would have examined her- 
self more particularly as to whether something in her own con- 
duct had not caused his absence, and would not have been so 
easily satisfied with Aunt Sophia’s explanation of it; but as mat- 
ters were, and seeing he was to be blessed so much sooner than he 
had hoped with the possession of her, she could not grudge her- 
self the sorrow of her solitude. There were now only a few days 
left to her for thought to wander free over what would henceforth 
be forbidden ground; but on this occasion, as has been said, her 
mind was occupied with less selfish matters. 

The whole morning Aunt Sophia and herself had spent in the 
company of their hostess, endeavoring to comfort her and keep 
up her spirits. From hour to hour messengers were despatched 
from the court-house to the poor lady with tidings of the trial; 


250 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


and on the whole, considering that the prosecution alone had for 
the present the ear of the jury, the news was good. The worst 
that could be made out against the captain was that he had ex- 
ceeded his powers and committed a technical, though indeed a 
very serious, offence; it was not even contended by the other side 
that he had been actuated by any motives of a personal kind, and 
apart from the consideration of the public good. It was rumored, 
however, that Mr. Bates was prepared to swear that his late chief 
had had a grudge against Murdoch; and at all events, whatever 
danger was to be feared lurked in this man’s testimony, and in 
that only. The report of it was therefore awaited by the three 
ladies with especial anxiety. 

After the conclusion of the case for the Crown, however, no 
news was brought to them for hours; their communications had 
either by some accident been cut off — which, considering the press 
about the court-house, and the difficulty of ingress and egress, was 
not an unlikely thing to have happened — or the news was such as 
it was thought better not to send. 

Aunt Sophia took the more cheerful view, and redoubled her 
efforts to sustain the courage of her hostess; but Edith, already 
broken in spirits, and all the chambers of her soul rendered unfit 
for the entertainment of hope, found herself useless as a consoler, 
and withdrew to her own sitting-room. 

From that last and worst state of human misery, in which the 
cloud that overhangs ourselves seems to darken the sky for our 
fellow-creatures, the selfish and the egotistic are free; the area of 
their despondence is limited; they do not feel the pressure of that 
atmosphere of universal woe which weighs so pitilessly upon more 
tender natures in their hour of sorrow. To Edith it seemed only 
too likely that the fate which had dealt with her so cruelly might 
treat with the same harshness the poor captain, and the reflection 
doubled her own distress of mind. 

It was not her habit to vex herself with “ the riddle of the pain- 
ful earth,” a conundrum that rarel}^ attracts the young; but on this 
occasion her thoughts had, with the boldness of despair, strayed 
beyond their usual limits into that dim and pathless forest of ap- 
prehension and surmise which, whether we are aware of it or not, 
surrounds us all. Once in it, the minutes pass like seconds, and 
the hours like minutes, though not, alas! on golden wings. Our 
very existence is absorbed by that future which we thus vaguely 
contemplate, as the wanderer is lost in the quicksand. It is even 
doubtful in which of the two worlds— this, or that which is to 
come— we live. AVhat time had elapsed since she bad been alone 
she knew not, but the afternoon had faded into evening when 
she was aroused by a knock at her door. “Come in! What 
news?” she inquired in a breath. 

“Good news; at least I hope so,” was the captain’s quiet re- 
ply, for it was the captain’s self who stood before her. 

She sprang to her feet with a wild cry of joy and held out both 


THE REVELATION". 


251 


her hands. “My dear, dear Captain Head, how happy I am to 
see you! All has gone well, then, after all?” 

“All has gone well, I hope, dear Miss Edith, after all,” he re- 
peated, slowly. 

“ You hope?” she answered, anxiously. “Then there is some- 
thing still behind? Pray, pray tell me all.” 

“There is something, as you say, still behind,” he answered, 
still in the same cautious and tentative tone, as of one who is 
afraid of saying too much. “ I will tell you all some day, but it 
is a long story. Just now we have only time for the results, as 
it were.” 

She glanced at him in mute astonishment. Why was his 
speech so bald and bare? Why, too, did he use the plural word 
“results?” There could be only one result he had to tell her. 
There was something in his manner too, notwithstanding the 
glad tidings he had brought, and which indeed were corrobo- 
rated by his presence, that filled her with vague alarm. The cap- 
tain’s stalwart arm seemed to tremble as he led her back to her 
seat and placed himself beside her ; his loud, straightforward 
tones had lost their vigor as he commenced to speak. 

“This was how it was, Miss Edith. The lawyer that was on 
the other side had not much to say against me on his own ac- 
count, though he was a long time about it; all he did say seemed 
to glance off the ears of the jury like water from a ship’s bows; 
but he promised them better things in the way of my being 
shown to be a tyrant aiid a man-slayer when jMr. Richard Bates 
should come to be examined. That gentleman, he said, had no 
motive for having laid a criminal information against me, but 
that of redressing, so far as law could do so, the wrongs of a 
shipmate, and doing justice to the memory of a dead — he had 
almost said a murdered— man. It was probable that it would be 
urged against this wmrthy person that I had deprived him of his 
rank, and that out of revenge he had trumped up this accusation 
against me; but that was, at most, a very small matter, even if 
it could be proved, and would in no way affect the truth of the 
charge. There was not a tittle of evidence to show that Mr. 
Bates had been concerned in the alleged mutiny, which would, as 
he understood, form the poor excuse for my high-handed con- 
duct. He was a just and honorable man, as the jury would pres- 
ently see for themselves, and incapable of that or any other hei- 
nous crime. It might be true that the inquiries into the character 
of the lives of other witnesses for the prosecution had resulted 
unfavorably; there were very few of us, perhaps, who had not 
some secret in our past which we would wish effaced; but this, 
again, could not affect— or only moderately affect — their testi- 
mony upon the matter in hand, while that of Mr. Bates was pure 
as the driven snow from any stain.” 

A shiver of disgust passed through Edith’s frame. “Well, 
well, my dear young lady, we will cut it as short as possible,” 


252 


A J’lilNCE OP THE BLOOD. 


said the captain, patting her hand; “this learned gentleman, 
since he was paid for it, was only right to do his best, and his 
best, no doubt, he did. Though he painted Mr. Bates in sucli 
glowing colors, he had to produce the original, you see, after all; 
and in the framework of the witness-box, I do assure you, he did 
not make a pretty picture. Though I was in the dock myself, 
I did not envy him, with his hang-dog face, even from the first, 
and presently a time came when I could almost have found it in 
my heart to pity him.” 

“I could not have found it in mine,” said Edith, sternly, “for 
he was at heart a murderer. ” 

The captain stroked his chin, and stared at her with a puzzled 
look. “That was just what I was coming to myself,” he fal- 
tered; “is it possible that you knew all about it?” 

“ I knew that he tried to murder Charles Layton at the Cape.” 

“Just so, just so,” said the captain, softly; and then he sighed, 
like one who, having, as he had hoped, come to the end of a dif- 
ficult job, finds once more all his work before him. “ Well, Miss 
Edith, they say it wmold be a good thing if we could see our- 
selves as others see us; and if so, I ought to be thankful for the 
account of myself which I heard from Mr. Richard Bates when 
under the examination of^ his counsel. It was, I assure you, 
quite a revelation, and without his unimpeachable evidence I 
could never have believed myself to be the irredeemable scoun- 
drel which he showed me to be. By the time he had got to my 
shooting of that unhappy wretch, Matthew Murdoch, 1 began to 
Avonder why I was not on trial for my life, and even why justice 
had so long permitted me to live.” 

“ I suppose that was the reason— I mean the utterance of this 
man’s slanders,” put in Edith. “But no report was brought us 
of his evidence.” 

“Well, partly — yes,” hesitated the captain; “something also 
occurred later on, my dear young lady, which it was thought you 
would not easily understand at second-hand, and so they thought 
it better to wait till I could come home and tell it you myself.” 

“Indeed, Avhat was that?” said Edith, with a preoccupied air. 
Her tone had become almost indifferent; now that her compan- 
ion was evidently out of peril, she found it difficult to keep her 
thoughts from straying from the subject. The captain, on the 
other hand, was growing more nervous and embarrassed with ev- 
ery word. Though his bluff face was paler than usual, he passed 
his handkerchief across it again and again, as though he Avere in 
the tropics; a gentle execration Avould noAv and again hover on 
his lips, Avhether in condemnation of his own stupidity or of 
those who had set him a task be3mnd his powers, it Avas impossi- 
ble to say. 

“You should have seen the change in that fellow Bates,” he 
continued, with an attempt at hilarity in his tone Avhich Av^as pit- 
eous to the last degree, “ when Collins got hold of him and shook 


THE REVELATION. 


253 


him as a terrier sliakes a rat. If you have ever seen a man 
hanged — which, however, I dare say you have not — and notice 
how he becomes in the instant a mere heap of clothes— well, that 
Avas Bates’s case under cross-examination. I soon found out that 
there was, at all events, one man in the world a deal worse than 
I had been shown to be, and riper for the gallows. It was amaz- 
ing how much more Collins, Q.C., seemed to know of what had 
been going on in Faybur, and under my very nose, as it were — 
and he a thousand miles away — than I ever knew myself. Bates, 
he showed, was hand-in-hand with the Malay, the inventor of that 
secret still from the fumes of which arose half our misfortunes, 
and the •instigator, if not the actual perpetrator, of the murder 
of poor Marston, which he tried to lay at the door of the good 
prince.” 

Edith’s flagging attention was roused in an instant. “ Oh, traitor 
and villain!” she cried; “how well I remember it!” 

“You do, do you?” said the captain, earnestly. “You may 
perhaps recollect, then, one expression that Bates used which 
puzzled us all when his accusation failed about ‘ cutting a rope?’” 

Edith shook her head. “It is no matter,” said the captain, but 
in a disappointed tone, and with the same air of having neared his 
object, and then having found himself all abroad again, as he had 
done before. “ Well, Avhen Mr. Collins had done with Mr. Bates, 
the scoundrel revived at once, like one who has received his dozen 
at the grating, and does not know that there’s another boatswain’s 
mate to come. When he saw Mr. Baring rise from his seat he 
didn’t seem to fear him as he had done the other (concluding him, 
I suppose, to be a much younger and probably less skilful lawyer), 
and he even answered the first question or two he put to him in 
such an impudent and oif-hand way as called forth a rebuke from 
the judge. But when he was asked, ‘Did you know one Mr. 
Charles Layton on board the Ganges T he turned a very queer 
color, I promise you. What seemed very strange, however, to me 
at the time, considering the effect he had evidently produced by 
the introduction of that gentleman’s name, Mr. Baring did not pur- 
sue the subject. His design, as I nojv believe, was to set Bates’s 
thoughts running in a particular channel, in order to make certain 
revelations he had in store for him more convincing and complete 
when the time came. If Mr. Collins had shown himself conversant 
with matters at Faybur, Mr. Baring manifested even a more mi- 
nute acquaintance with what took place on our voyage out from 
first to last. It would have been impossible to believe. Miss Edie, 
unless one had not known the contrary, that he had not himself 
been a passenger on board the Ganges. One would have thought 
that he had known your uncle and cousin, and even yourself, quite 
familiarly, and had been qualified to speak of all of us from per- 
sonal knowledge. Among others, he spoke again of Mr. Charles 
Layton.” 

Edith uttered not a word; but in the gathering twilight her 


254 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


companion noticed that she straightened herself in her chair like 
one who collects all her povvers of endurance to bear the hearing 
of some painful and distressing thing, “I will spare you all I 
can, Miss Edie,” murmured the captain, gently, “ but it is necessary 
you should know what took place. As the examination proceeded 
the witness grew more and more perturbed in manner whenever 
his gaze met that of Mr. Baring, who presently put this question 
to him; ‘ You remember the day on which the storm carried away 
the deck-house with Mr, and Miss Norbury in it?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said Bates, very slowly, and with his e3'^es fixed on the 
roof of the court-house, ‘ I remember it well.’ 

“ ‘ Look at me, if you please,’ said Mr, Baring, sternly. ‘ Do you 
remember any other circumstance that happened on that day?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Mr. Layton was drowned.’ 

“ ‘ How was he drowned?’ 

“There was no reply. Bates moved his lips a little, and that 
was all. His face was like the face of a dead man. The whole 
court was so hushed in waiting for his answer that you might 
have heard a pin drop. 

“ ‘ Come, sir, you cannot have forgotten a circumstance of which 
you were a witness, though not, perhaps, as you have hitherto im- 
agined, the only witness. Be so good as to tell us what happened 
at the very time — or within a few seconds after it — that the deck- 
house of the Ganges was carried away.’ 

“‘The Flying Dutchman was seen by the two men at the 
wheel.’ 

“ ‘ I am not asking you what was seen by the men at the wheel. 
Let us hear, if you please, how ]\[r. Layton was drowned.’ 

“ Then Bates licked his dry lips, and answered straightforward- 
ly enough, but in a dull, mechanical wa3% ‘ When the deck-house 
was carried away Avith Mr. Norbury and his niece in it, Mr. Lay- 
ton caught up a life-buoy and threw himself into the sea, with the 
object of saving the young lady.’ 

“‘Well?’ 

“It was only a monosjdlable. Miss Edie, but if it had been an 
indictment as long as my arnj, it could not have been more effect- 
ual. Bates seemed by his looks to have changed places with me, 
and to be no longer the witness, but the criminal. 

“ ‘ I know nothing more,’ he faltered. 

“ ‘ What? Did you never see Mr. Layton’s face again after he 
leaped from the deck?’ 

“‘Never.’ 

“The man was speaking so low that, notwithstanding the si- 
lence, the judge could not hear it, and it had to be repeated. 

“ ‘ Think again,’ said Mr. Baring; ‘ was not the drowning man 
carried back to the ship’s side while you were leaning over the 
bulwarks? and was there not a rope hanging from it at which he 
clutched?’ 

“The wretched cre4ture wgs trembling. Miss Ldie, in all hi§ 


THE REVELATION. 


255 


limbs, and whether he shook his head in dissent or not no man 
could sa}^ but he did shake it. 

‘Look at me, Richard Bates,’ cried Mr. Baring, in a terrible 
voice ; ‘ now, will you dare to swear that you did not cut that 
rope?’ 

“ He had taken off his wig. Miss Edie, and shown him the man 
he believed he had murdered!” 

Edith threw up her arms with a cry of joy. “Not dead, not 
dead 1” she exclaimed ; then her head sank upon her breast, and 
she murmured, in despairing tones, “Too late, too late!” 

“Hush, hush. Miss Edie, you must not say that,” said the cap- 
tain, soothingly, “ it is always better late than never. If some one 
else had broken it to you instead of an old blunderhead like me, 
you would not be taking on so. It was cruel to me, and cruel to 
you, that they should have made me do it. But I do assure you 
things are not so bad as you think.” 

She held out her hand with a bitter smile, and the captain' 
pressed it to his lips. 

“ There, there, now, I know you have forgiven me. Miss Edie. 

I have plenty more to tell, but I don’t know how to tell it, and 
that’s the fact. As for what happened afterwards at the trial — 
though I know you are glad to see me a free man — you can afford 
to wait for all that. There is nothing so interesting to us, after 
all, as our own affairs ; eh, Miss Edie?” — this with a miserable at- 
tempt at slyness. “Your aunt is waiting below-stairs to discuss 
them with you, unless you would like to see any one else first,” 
he added, hesitatingly. 

“Tarilam, Tarilam ! I will see nobody but Tarilam,” was 
Edith’s impassioned reply. 

“ Oh dear, oh dear ! what is to be done ejaculated the 

captain, glancing helplessly about him. Then, with a sudden 
look of relief, he stamped loudly upon the floor. It was evi- 
dently a preconcerted signal, for Aunt Sophia. at once presented 
herself at the door. 

“Have you told her all?” were her first words. 

“I don’t know what I’ve told her,” replied the captain, de- 
spairingly; “ I only know I have made a mess of it, as I knew I 
should. She has heard that Mr. Baring is Charles Layton; and 
when I asked her if she would like to see him, she answered, 

‘ Tarilam, Tarilam; I will see nobody but Tarilam.’” 

* “My , pretty dear !” exclaimed Aunt Sophia, throwing 

herself on her knees beside her niece and embracing her tender- 
ly, “ Prince Tarijam has sailed to-day for Breda.” 


256 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

BREAKING IT. 

There is a great art in “breaking things” of an emotioniil 
character to the persons principally concerned. The American 
(Jonathan) who volunteered to convey the tiding^of his friend 
(David’s) death to his wife thought, no doubt, he had hit upon a 
subtle and delicate way of doing it when he knocked at her door 
and inquired whether “Widow David” lived there. But, as a 
rule, people shrink from this sort of task, and prefer to get it 
done by proxy. It was not, however, because Aunt Sophia 
wished to spare herself that she had deputed the captain to reveal 
to Edith the fact of Charles Layton’s being still in the flesh. She 
hoped that from his lips it would come, not indeed with a less 
shock of surprise, but with a less disturbing influence than from 
herself, whose very presence, cognizant as Edith knew her to be 
with her inmost feelings, must needs “make weakness weak,” 
and unfit her for the reception of such amazing news. She had 
been in possession of it herself for many days, and judging from 
the weight of it even upon her own mind, she had almost feared 
lest that of Edith should break down under the burden so sud- 
denly laid upon it. 

It was not till after much discussion and consultation, and with 
the greatest pressure upon the gallant sailor himself, who shrank 
from it with a cowardice that did him infinite credit, that it had 
been decided, in case of his acquittal, to intrust this revelation to 
the captain’s hands. It was hoped that the good news of his own 
discharge from danger would give his hearer strength to bear the 
tidings of what concerned herself; and, moreover, that it would 
be thus conveyed to her in the most natural and straightforward 
manner. 

Unhappily, however, a man may have a story at first band, 
and even of his own experience, and yet be a bad hand at telling 
it. If the captain had not — as he had remorsefully confessed— 
absolutely “made a mess of it,” he had certainly not succeeded 
as a raconteur. Indeed he had made the appalling mistake of 
beginning at the wrong end of his story; and now poor Aunt So- 
phia had to tell it all over again — under what must be allowed to 
be a great disadvantage — to an audience on the brink of hysterics. 
Even when the poor girl had recovered herself a little it was 
doubtful whether she quite understood her position, since she 
kept murmuring “ Tarilam, Tarilam,” in a voice so despairing and 
pathetic as would have touched her companion in any case, but 
which, as matters were, gave her the keenest pain. At last, how- 
ever, the sjunptoms of the malady, as it were, themselves su^- 


BREAKING IT. 


257 


gested the remedy, and Aunt Sophia began to speak to her, not 
of the lover she had found, hut of him she had lost, and who 
heretofore had been so injudiciously ignored. 

“Do you remember, Edie darling," she said, taking the girl’s 
hand in both her own, and speaking with infinite tenderness, “ the 
morning on which he found you in this very room looking at 
Charles Layton's picture?” The reply was so feeble and choked 
with tears that only the ear of love could have caught it. 

“ You are right, my darling. He did not know whose it was at 
the time,” continued Aunt Sophia, “ but no sooner had he left 
you than he met the very man face to face, in this very house, 
and recognized him for whom he was only too well; that is why 
Tarilam has never seen you since, dear Edie.” 

There was a long silence, w'hich Aunt Sophia forbore to break, 
in hopes that from that last sentence the girl would be able to 
guess for herself the situation, and thereby render the details that 
must follow less distressing. 

“I do not understand,” said Edie, passing her hand helplessly 
across her forehead. “ How came Mr. Layton in this house?” 

“ Well, it was this way. When he leaped into the sea it was, 
as he thought, to save you, and not your unhappy cousin; he be- 
lieved you to have been drowned before his very eyes. How, 
after that wicked wretch had cut the rope by which he could 
have regained the Ganges, he was picked up by the ship which 
our sailors took for the Flying Batchman 1 will tell you another 
day; but after he returned to England he was as fully convinced 
of your own death as you were of his. Though he had saved his 
life, it seemed — as it seemed to you — that he had nothing left to 
live for.” 

Edith uttered a piteous moan, which went to the other’s heart, 
for she understood its meaning. 

“Do not reproach yourself, my darling,” she continued, sooth- 
ingly, “for, as w’e all w^ell know, you did not forget him any 
more than he forgot you. You are both, as we all are, compelled 
by circumstances to do what seems the best, where all is bad, for 
ourselves. Law became his mistress, and he applied himself de- 
votedly to his profession, though, as it happened, there was no 
longer need for him to work. You remember that he used to 
speak to you of certain expectations which might possibly bear 
fruit. They did so, and soon after his return to England he be- 
came a rich man upon condition of his taking the name of Bar- 
ing. The fact of his existence thus became by that simple means 
as unknown to you as that of yours to him. Though he knew, of 
course, of the rest of us having arrived from Faybur, he made na 
attempt to communicate with us. It was not flattering to poor 
me, Edie, was it? but the consciousness that you were lost to him 
made every association with you distressing to him. Directly 
he heard, however, of the danger in which the captain stood by 
the action of Mr. Bates, he volunteered his services. Though ho 
17 


258 


A PRIXCE OF THE BLOOD. 


knew that that scoundrel had returned home, he had hitherto not 
thought it worth his while to punish him; his attempt to murder 
him by cutting the rope would have been a diflicult thing to prove 
under ordinary circumstances; but the fact, as he instantly per- 
ceived, might be made of infinite service to the captain, as indeed 
it proved, for on the confession of so foul a crime, wrung from 
the only witness against him, the case broke down at once.” 

Here Aunt Sophia paused; it seemed to her as though she 
spoke in vain, for Edith evinced no sign of interest, scarcely of 
attention. Her eyes were fixed straight before her, with an ex- 
pression of extreme bewilderment and pain, and the hand her 
companion clasped and fondled in her own was cold as ice, and 
dead to the touch of sympathy, 

“You said he was in the house — this very house — that day,” 
she murmured, presently. 

“Yes, he called, as I have said, to offer his services in the com- 
ing trial, of which he had just heard. His card, of course, told 
the captain nothing, and ‘ Heaven forbid 3’'ou should be the man 
I take you for,’ were the words with which he was greeted. 

“ ‘ You are sorry, it seems, to see me in the land of the living,’ 
answered Mr. Layton, bitterly. ‘ Well, I am sorry to be there 
myself.’ 

“Then he went on to say that he should never have sought to 
renew his acquaintance with the captain, on account of the mel- 
ancholy associations with his lost darling it must needs awaken, 
but for the peril in which the other stood, and which it was in 
his power, as he thought, to free him from. 

“Not one word of this, Edie, as he assures me, did the poor 
captain at the moment understand; he had been amazed beyond 
measure at finding Mr. Layton still alive. The thought of the 
relations that had once existed between jmu and him, and which 
had been so unfortunately severed by your engagement with 
Prince Tarilam, shocked him exceedingly; but now it seemed even 
a more terrible complication had arisen. It was plain that Mr. 
Layton, in his* turn, did not know of your existence, and it in- 
stantly struck the captain that it -would be better he should never 
learn it, since to hear you were alive and out of his reach would 
be to suffer a second bereavement. If you had told the captain, 
as the other day you told me, that you intended to sail with Tar- 
ilam as youv husband, he would certainly not have opened his 
lips to Mr. Layton; that he did not know this, and therefore felt 
that concealment was useless, is something, at least, to be thank- 
ful for, my darling.” 

Edith shook her head, and a piteous shiver ran through her 
slender frame, 

“ I feel as though I could be thankful for nothing but deafh,” 
she answered, with despairing calm. “I am the cause of trou- 
ble and wretchedness to all who belong to me, and most of all 
to those whom I love best.” 


THE SACRIFICE. 


259 


“At all events, nobody grudges the trouble you have cost 
them,” said Aunt Sophia, soothingly. She felt how utterly inad- 
equate were such words for the occasion ; the role she had to play 
was far beyond her powers, yet somehow she must needs go 
through with it. “The captain, as I have said, my darling, felt 
that, sooner or later, Mr. Layton must become cognizant of what 
had happened, and that being so, the sooner he should learn it 
the better; and yet, as he confessed to me, he shrank from telling 
him as he had never shrunk from peril on sea or shore. It 
seemed to him that no situation could be more distressing or beset 
with difficulties, till all of a sudden, while he was cudgelling his 
brains for a way out of it, the matter was made worse a thousand- 
fold — the door opened, and Tarilam himself stood before them.” 

With a sharp cry of anguish, Edith put her hands up to her 
ears, as if to close her senses to what was coming. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE SACRIFICE. 

“Do not shut your ears, Edie darling,” continued Aunt Sophia, 
earnestly, “ to the noblest story that ever woman had to tell of 
man. 

“ ‘This is Prince Tarilam,’ said the captain, hardly knowing 
what he said. ‘ And this^ said the prince, interrupting him be- 
fore he could complete his introduction, ‘ is Mr. Charles Layton, 
whom Edie believes to be dead and drowned.’ 

“He had recognized the likeness to the portrait he had just 
seen in your hand, and understood at once not only what had 
happened, but what must needs happen if he should take the 
course which the generosity of his noble nature bad instantly 
suggested to him. His voice was calm and even gentle, the cap- 
tain tells me, and in his generous face could be already read the 
self-sacrifice he had in contemplation,” 

“ Let me go to him ! let me tell him what I owe him!” cried 
Edith, startiug to her feet. “Oh, Tarilam, Tarilam! why can I 
not be as noble as yourself?” 

“Because, my darling, you are a woman,” answered Aunt So- 
phia, boldly, “and what was difficult for him is impossible for 
you. Not, however, by a hair’s-breadth would I belittle his great- 
ness. You who know how he loved you can alone appreciate 
what it cost him to give you up. This he did, however, iu a few 
simple words that deserve to be written in gold. Since you would 
never have promised to be his own, he said, had you not believed 
his rival to be dead, he acknowledged that you belonged by right 
to him who had first won your love. The simplicity of his rea- 
sons for right-doing touched his hearers almost as much as his 
self-sacrifice itself. 


260 


A PKINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“ ‘ One has heard of nature’s noblemen,’ exclaimed ]\Ir. Lay- 
ton, ‘but here is a born prince indeed;’ and independently of the 
huge obligation under which he is to him, it is impossible to ex- 
aggerate his admiration for Tarilam’s character. Though, from 
obvious motives of delicacy, he has forborne to thrust his com- 
panionship upon him, he liolds him as his dearest friend.” 

“ Tarilam, Tarilam — tell me of Tarilam,” murmured Edith, im- 
patiently. To speak or think of others just then, and especially of 
his rival, seemed to the poor girl, bowed down beneath that weight 
of debt, ungrateful and disloyal to her generous creditor. 

“ Tarilam, my darling, as was only to be expected of him,” an- 
swered Aunt Sophia, “had no thought except for you, and how 
to cause you, when so much must needs be painful, the least pos- 
sible distress of mind. It was arranged that under pretence of 
being occupied with the arrangements for the departure of his 
people, he should cease to visit you as usual. He had resolved 
to sail with them directly the trial was over, and he had seen that 
dear friend safe for whom, in all his own trouble, he had shown 
the teuderest solicitude. One stipulation only he made; that he 
should bid you one last good - by before he went, and with his 
own lips wish you that happiness which — ” 

Here Aunt Sophia for the first time broke down; nothing, in- 
deed, but the extreme importance of not giving Avay to emotion 
for Edith’s sake had hitherto restrained her from doing so; for 
while she had been speaking of Tarilam, the picture of his calm, 
despairing face, so ill assorting with his generous and self-deny- 
ing words, had never been absent from her mind. She was 
moved, in truth, no less than Edith herself, who, though she now 
knew what Tarilam had done — and, better than any, its greatness 
and nobility — had not been a witness for days and days, as Aunt 
Sophia had been, to the doing of it. Tears Tarilam had not shed 
— for he had done nothing misbecoming — and tears did not be- 
come his father’s son and a prince of Breda; but the distress of 
that brave, though wellnigh broken heart had been terrible to 
witness, and the thought of it all for the moment fairly overcame 
her. 

Presently she felt herself roughly shaken by the arm, while at 
the same time a voice she scarcely recognized as that of her com- 
panion — it was so fierce and harsh — rang in her trembling ear. 
“ And who forbade my Tarilam to come?” it inquired, menacing- 
ly; “who dared to deny me to him? Oh, cruel and ungrateful 
wretch that he must think me! The one poor favor that he asked 
of one who owed him all to be refused! Who was it, woman?” 

“ Edie darling, forgive me, it was I.” 

“ You!” 

Monosyllable though it was, the word seemed the very concen- 
tration of contempt and even hate, and the girl shrank from her 
as she uttered it. 

“Listen, Edie; and when I have told you why I did it,” said 


THE SACRIFICE. 


261 


Aimt Sopl)ia, piteously, “ think of me what you will. When he 
tirst proposed to say his last good-by to you in person, I offered 
no opposition to it; it would, I know, be distressing to you, of 
course, to the last degree; but since he seemed to think it would 
be some comfort to him, I felt it only due to him that he should 
have his way. It was then arranged, as he liad understood that 
you were to marry him within a few weeks or months; but when 
you presently confided to me that you proposed to be his wife at 
once, and sail with him to Breda, a terror seized me lest you 
should tell him so before he could explain how matters really 
stood. It would have been too much for mortal man to bear, 
Edie, if his disappointment had taken that shape; to have such a 
cup of happiness held to him so close, and then to have had to 
dash it from his lips with his own hands, was an ordeal too ter- 
rible to subject him to. Do you remember how, when you 
told me of your intention, I said, ‘ Pie must never, never know 
it,’ though fortunately you misunderstood my meaning. All I 
thought of then, all I have thought of since, was to spare that no- 
ble heart one needless pang. I persuaded him that to see you 
again would distress you infinitely more than to learn what had 
happened from other lips, or from his own written words, and 
that argument, as I had foreseen, sufficed. He could not bring 
himself to write just now to his dear writing mistress. There, 
there, I will say no more.” 

Aunt Sophia had said enough, and more than enough, though 
how to have told her story in fewer or more judicious words 
would have puzzled a wiser brain than hers. Those simple 
vrords, “his dear writing mistress,” had “melted the waxen 
heart” of her companion, and she had fallen on the floor like 
one struck by death itself. The tension to which her mind had 
so long been subjected, followed by the shock of the captain’s 
tidings, had tried her strength to the uttermost, and now it had 
given wa3^ “I have killed my darling,” was Aunt Sophia’s first 
agonized thought; and when, after life returned, and the patient 
lay for weeks in fever and delirium, her remorse was hardly less 
poignant. Her cry was only exchanged for one almost as bitter, 
“I have driven my darling mad!” That Edith, however, re- 
mained for so long a period utterly ignorant of the events that 
had been so perilously crowded into her last da}" of conscious life 
was probably, on the whole, to her advantage, for before she 
came to herself her constitution had had time to gather strength. 

The first question she put to Aunt Sophia in her natural voice, 
“Where is he, Sophy dear?” was one that puzzled that good lady 
' not a little to reply to; for she was by no means certain as to 
which of her two swains Edith was making inquiry. Upon con- 
sideration, indeed, she felt it must needs be Mr. Charles Layton, 
and I am afraid she rather grudged that fortunate gentleman his 
first place in her niece’s mind. 

It was very unreasonable, of course; but the fact was that Aunt 


262 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


Sophia had become, though unconsciously, a partisan on the los- 
ing side. The spoils were to the victor, and he could well afford 
to be without her sympathy, the absence of which, moreover, he 
never discovered ; and though somebody else did so, she was far 
indeed from resenting it. If anything could have made Aunt 
Sophia dearer to her niece’s heart than she was, it was the con- 
sciousness that she respected and admired Prince Tarilam more 
than any living man. They did not talk of him together very 
often, but when they did so it was with hushed voices and dewy 
eyes. Charley always spoke of him to his wife as the noblest 
fellow he had ever met, but somehow his praise was not accepta- 
ble to her; it was well meant, indeed, but, like the worship that 
had been offered to her as the Queen of Flowers, it was, she felt, 
but the incense of ignorance. None but herself and one other 
knew what a noble heart beat in Prince Tarilam’s breast, and, 
thanks to that other, still continued to beat. Of this, however, 
Edith knew nothing till years afterwards, when the child that 
had nestled in her bosom was dancing on lier knee. 


CHAPTER L. 

AUNT SOPHIA’S SECRET. 

Edith had received that day a letter from Breda, the first of 
many a one that reached her whenever opportunity served, and 
the two women had been talking of the writer with infinite ten- 
derness. 

“To hear that dear Tarilam is well and happy,” said Edith, 
looking at her boy, “ makes my cup of happiness full to the brim. 
Hitherto, as I may now confess to you, Sophy darling, there has 
always been a drop of bitterness in it.” 

“You need not blame yourself on that account,” answered 
Sophia, with a sudden touch of tartness. “If you had forgotten 
his misery, you would have deserved to share it.” 

‘ ‘ That is quite true, dear Sophy,” was the humble reply. Then, 
after a little pause, “Was he so very, very miserable?” she rejoined, 
softly. “ I have never dared to ask you about what happened 
on that dreadful day when you took leave of him; but now that 
he seems so happy and resigned — ” 

“ Or says so for your sake,” put in Aunt Sophia, significantly. 

“Indeed, dear Sophy, I hope that it is not so; why should you 
think it? Have you any reason unknown to me?” 

“Reason? No, I have no reason,” answered the other, dryly, 
“but only a woman’s instinct, and pity for a generous nature 
hardly used.” 

“Oh, Sophy, and have / no pity?” 

“I should be ashamed, indeed, to think so, Edie; but you have 
your husband and your child; and sometimes, in your paradise 


AUNT Sophia’s secret. 


2G3 


of happiness, it seems to me that you have forgotten him to whom 
you owe it.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, I have not forgotten him; Heaven knows it, 
for night and day his name is in my prayers.” 

“Then I have done you wrong; forgive me.” 

The two women kissed and wept, while the child gazed at them 
and pulled his mother’s sleeve, amazed. 

“ At one time I had wished to keep what I had to tell a secret 
to myself forever, Edie, and then I thought I would wait and tell 
you, when time liad given you strength to bear it ; and then, 
again, when I saw you, as I wrongfully supposed, forgetting him 
a little, I hid the matter, because I felt 3 mu were unworthy to 
hear it; and if you had not asked me, Edie, you would never 
have known one word of it to my dying day. 

“When Tarilani had given you up to his rival, it was fortu- 
nate, indeed, I thought, that he had so much to busy himself 
about in the preparation of his people for their voyage and in the 
lading of the ship. I saw him every day; and though he spoke 
of you at times in words that pierced m}”^ heart with their devo- 
tion and despair, he mainly spok-e upon the subject of the voyage, 
and of the pleasure which this and that, and the many gifts he 
was taking back, would give the king, his father. You remember 
his room, Edie, how crowded it was with those little mementos 
of his own choosing, simple and often worthless in themselves, 
but speaking so eloquentl}'- of his filial love?” 

There was no repl}"; but by the tears that coursed down Edith’s 
cheeks it was easy to see that she remembered them well. 

“Then the ship was ready for sailing at an hour’s notice, and 
only awaited the prince’s pleasure, while he, on his part, was de- 
laying his departure for the result of the trial. It was arranged 
that directly this should be known I should communicate the 
news to him, and bid him a last farewell. The messenger arrived 
from the court-house only a little in advance of the captain him- 
self, who always says that the heaviest burden ever laid upon a 
man’s shoulders was the telling of the tale he had to tell to you. 
AVhile he w\as doing it, however, I was employed upon a task that 
was even more painful, for the captain’s story had a bright side 
for your eyes, Edie, and my good-by to Tarilam had none for his. 
He listened to all I had to say of you with greedy ears, but in si- 
lence, and the distress in his gentle face was piteous to witness. 
The only thing that served to give him comfort was the convic- 
tion I expressed that in due time, and after you had recovered 
from the shock of his departure, you would be happy. He seemed 
to feel the same content as regarded you which a parent feels in 
the happiness of his children.” 

“Did he speak of Charley?” whispered Edith, in trembling 
tones. 

“Yes, in the most kind and generous terms, acknowledging 
his superiority to himself and the likelihood of his making you a 


264 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


better husband. Not a touch of jealousy ‘ stained the white radi- 
ance ’ of that noble soul.” 

Edith was choked with sobs. Aunt Sophia took up the child 
and placed it on the mother’s lap ere she resumed. 

“He had declined to write to you ere he went awajL as I have 
said; but I now besought him to take the first opportunity of do- 
ing so on arriving at Breda. I told him how dear his memory 
would always be to you, and what pleasure it would give you to 
hear from him. To this he answered nothing. ‘ You will write 
to her, will you not, dear Tarilam,’ I adjured him solemnly, ‘as 
soon as you get home?’ 

“ Then, when he still made no reply, I read something in his 
face which, though it must have been there all along, I had not 
seen before. I should not have seen it then, perhaps, but for the 
recollection that suddenly occurred to me of sometliing he had 
said to me in Faybur. He had told me that it was the custom 
of his royal race, when they found life too great a burden, to put 
an end to their own existence by woorali curase, a few grains of 
which they always carried about with them. I had thought little 
of it at the time, for, strange as it was, there was so much else 
that was strange in those days, and still less afterwards, when 
Tarilam had, as it were, become one of ourselves, and seemed to 
be separated from all the ways of his kinsfolk. But now that he 
would not give me his promise to write — for, as you know, he 
could never be induced to tell a lie— it struck me in a flash what 
he meant to do. ‘ Tarilam,’ I said, ‘ I have given you hope, and 
good hope, that sooner or later our Edith may recover from the 
sorrow which your sudden and unlooked-for departure must 
needs cause her; but, believe me, she is in no condition to bear 
any further shock. If you think of killing yourself, remember, 
you will kill her also.’ 

“He did not answer, but turned his face away from me with a 
piteous groan. I had guessed his purpose, and saw that it was 
already frustrated. He had flattered himself that he had found a 
way of escape out of his misery, and now it was closed to him, as 
I forever. ‘ It would have been so easy to die for her, deai* 
Tarihun,’ I said, ‘ but you must do more— you must live for her,’ 
and it is for your sake, Edie, that he is living now.” 

A more loving husband than Charles Layton no woman ever 
found, nor was it to be wondered at, since he had always been de- 
voted to her. “Faithful and true, living or dead,” had been the 
promise he had made to her from the first, and he liad kept it loy- 
ally. She was loving and devoted, too, but with a difference; the 
sense that she had not been so loyal oppressed her. Her offence 
(for such she always considered it) in this respect had unhappily 
been twofold, or, rather, had been a twofold catastrophe. She 
had forgotten the dead and misled the living. They had both 
forgiven her, and both assured her, indeed, that there was noth- 
ing to forgive, but she could not forgive herself. The subject 


THE FAIRY GODMOTHER. 


2G5 


was never alluded to, but years elapsed before remorse faded to 
regret. She had troubles, as have the happiest of us— one that 
especially wrings a mother’s heart; but even that did not surpass 
the pang of pity and self-reproach that shot through it whenever 
she thought of Tarilam. Society was distasteful to her; partly, 
perhaps, because she feared its babble, whether thoughtless or 
malicious, might concern itself with this tender topic, and partly 
because long residence in her island home had begotten a taste 
for solitude. Her husband toiled and throve, and was raised, 
while still in middle life, to the bench. Her greatest happiness 
was in his success, and, above all, in the honor in which he was 
held by all men; but her own life was a retired one. What had 
happened to her at Faybur was not only an epoch in her life, but 
an experience that colored all the current of it. Many a woman 
before she meets the man of her choice has a sweetheart whose 
memory keeps its tender and not unwholesome fragrance for years, 
but the recollection of Tarilam abode, in all honesty and honor, 
in Edith’s heart forever. She never forgot her Prince of the 
Blood. 


EPILOGUE. 

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER. 

It was by the last post, on the previous evening, that Arthur 
Forester had received at his chambers in the Temple the MS. which 
Cicely had sent him, and when he rose from its perusal the summer 
sun was high in the heavens. The narrative was certainly not 
without an interest of its own, and the more so since it was the life 
history of one still living, and whom he had so lately seen; but it 
could hardly, I fear, have riveted his eyes to its pages for so many 
hours had it not had for him a personal interest of the most vital 
kind. It was, indeed, as he had been assured, no allegory, but a 
lesson that he who ran might read; its obvious moral was, under 
every chance and change, to be faithful to those we love; and it 
addressed itself, as Cicely had told him, at least as much to her 
as to him. She might have said, even more so; for in her god- 
mother’s story, which, without doubt, was that of Edith Norbury, 
it was Edith who had failed in her fidelity, and not her lover. It 
W'as true that her own case was not Cicely’s, inasmuch as she had 
refused to be engaged to him; but, if he had had any doubt of it 
before, he was now well convinced that she loved him, and was 
willing to wait for him, if only he should prove himself worthy 
of her; her sending him the story could have had no other pur- 
pose than to a.ssure him of it. The words that she had written on 
its envelope were even still more convincing. 

“ I sympathize with her regrets,” which meant, of course, with 
Edith’s regrets; for if the tale had been named after its heroine in- 
stead of its hero, might it not well have been called “ The Remorse 


266 


A PRINCE OP THE BLOOD. 


of Edith Norbury?” And who teas this Edith ISTorbury, whom he 
had only seen but once, and never before — though it seemed she 
was Cicely’s godmother — so much as heard of? There was a Lay- 
ton, he dimly remembered to have heard, who had risen at an un- 
usually early age to the bench, and had died when still young — for 
a judge. That must have been thirty j^ears ago and more; but it 
was quite possible that the beautiful old lady he had seen in the 
wheeled chair, and whom he had likened to a princess, was his 
widow. And it seemed that she might have been a princess had 
she so chosen. No wonder that Cicely had said to him that even- 
ing, “Among all the thousands that are in these gardens, there 
is no one whose story has been such a romance as hers;” but how 
strange it was that he had never heard of it. 

Upon consideration, however, was it, he asked himself, so 
strange ? It was a story that she had very good reasons for 
concealing, and its incidents were more than half a century old. 
However notorious it might once have been, there was time 
enough and to spare for it to have been forgotten. Scores of 
people with whose name the world is busy in their youth sur- 
vive to find themselves obscure, and the more quickly if, as was 
doubtless this lady’s case, they seek obscurity. 

Interesting as Lady Layton had become to him since he had 
learned her story, Mr. Arthur Forester had, however, matters of 
greater interest to think of, albeit they arose from its perusal. 
He sat down and wrote two letters, one to the secretary of a 
great personage who had offered him the appointment in India, 
and one to Cicely. The tone of this latter note was affectionate 
and devoted, but free from passion. “I have read the •story of 
your dear godmother,” it said, “ with the utmost interest, and 
have laid its lesson to heart. I should have liked before I sail to 
thank her for it in person, but I can easily understand that that 
is impossible. My time is short — three weeks from this date ; 
you will give me, dear Cicely, one interview, I know, before I go. 
I promise you it shall cost you nothing, for I will ask for noth- 
ing.” It was a very humble letter as regarded Cicely, and a very 
modest one as regarded himself. “ With such a prize in view as 
I have,” he said, “it is a small thing to say that I shall do my 
best to win it. If I fail to do so, it will be my own fault, but not 
(as I would have selfishly made it) another’s misfortune.” 

In reply to his letter. Cicely appointed a day for their inter- 
view. It was not at an early date ; but the reason for that, as 
they were to meet but once before liis departure for India, was 
easily explicable. To feel that he was still on English ground 
for any time after she had bidden him her last good-by would 
naturally be distressing to her. In the interval Arthur Forester 
occupied himself in making arrangements for his departure. 

At the appointed day he repaired to his uncle’s house, who was 
a widower, where he was evidently expected. Instead of being 
shown up into the drawing-room, he was ushered to the boudoir. 


THE FATRY GODMOTHER. 


2G7 


which he rightly judged to be of good omen. Impecunious cous- 
ins and detrimentals generally have not the entree of that sacred 
apartment. 

Presently Cicely entered, accompanied by an old lady, very 
gentle and gracious -looking, who leaned upon the girl’s arm. 
Arthur recognized her at once, and, before saluting his mistress, 
respectfully raised her companion’s fingers to his lips. “You 
know who I am, it seems, young sir,” she observed, good-nat- 
uredly. 

Now, instead of saying, “Yes, you are Cicely’s godmother,” 
Arthur had the intelligence to reply, “You are Lady Layton, 
madam,” and she inclined her head with a smile of pleasure. 
Even the most unselfish of one’s fellow-creatures likes to be val- 
ued for his own sake. Moreover, the young man’s words were 
accompanied by a look of unmistakable tenderness and sympa- 
thy. It touched him to think that wofully changed indeed by 
time and trials, but still a living being like himself, there stood 
before him Edith Noibury, who fifty years ago had been, per- 
haps, the counterpart of Cicely herself. Her story, with all its 
dramatis personce, came involuntarily into his mind. Were they 
all dead and gone, he wondered, and she alone left to tell of them? 

Her ladyship looked at him very fixedly. “Forgive,” she said, 
“the egotism of a recluse. What is it, young sir, that you are 
thinking about me?” 

Arthur blushed to his forehead. If he could have invented 
some less personal reply on the spur of the moment, it is probable 
he would have done so; but, as it was, he told her the simple truth. 

“ It is a good sign for you, darling,” she said, turning to Cicely, 
“that this young man pities the old. Yes, sir,” she added in low, 
tremulous tones, “they are all dead, save one — the good prince 
and my dear husband, and kind Aunt Sophy and honest Captain 
Head. They are all gone to heaven, where 1 hope soon to follow 
them. But do not let me shadow with my cares, my child, your 
parting hour.” 

Here the old lady whispered to Cissie something, at which she 
.shook her pretty head. “ Well, if I must, I must,” returned her 
ladyship, though not at all like one who is acting compulsorily, 
but, on the contrary, with a bright smile that illumined her gray 
face as sunshine sparkles on the frost. 

“You see it is not as if you and Cissie here were engaged to 
be married, Mr. Arthur,” she began; “in which case you would 
be settling your own affairs together, without the intervention of 
any old woman in Christendom; but, as I understand the matter, 
you are both as free as air, though one of you is on his proba- 
tion.” Here Cissie was about to interrupt, but her godmother 
lifted an imperious finger for silence. “I am speaking to the 
young gentleman,” she said, “and not to you at all, miss.” 

“ What you say is very true. Lady Layton,” returned Arthur, 
humbly, “except that my own position is not quite so good as 
you are pleased to describe it.” 


268 


A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“You mean that if your happiness could be secured by your 
own efforts there would be no fear of your success; but that it is 
very doubtful, even if you do your very best, in India whether 
you will earn sufficient, within a reasonable time, to enable you 
to come home and maintain a wife in England.” 

“ I could go out to him,” murmured Cicely, pleadingly, 

“You will do nothing of the kind, miss,” returned her god- 
mother, sharply. “ Do you suppose that my young friend here is 
such a selfish wretch as to permit it?” 

“Certainly not,” protested Arthur. “She might be ship- 
wrecked.” 

“True; as I was. Then you w^ould think her dead, and marry 
some one else.” 

“Never,” said Arthur, confidently. 

The tears came into the old lady’s eyes. 

“ That is what I used to say, my dear, you remember,” she mur- 
mured, sadly, “and yet I did not keep my word.” 

Arthur did remember it, but unfortunately too late; he w\as 
vexed with himself for having inadvertently distressed her, but it 
was plain she was not vexed with him. 

From “young sir” she had dropped quite naturally to “my 
young friend,” and now she had called him “ my dear.” 

“ I think I will leave you two young people together,” she said; 
then, with a loving glance at Cicely, “ you may tell him what you 
please, my darling. ” 

“ 1 would much rather that you stayed with us, dear godmother, 
and told him yourself,” replied Cissie, demurely. 

“That is not your view, Mr. Arthur,” said the old lady, smil- 
ing, for indeed the young gentleman’s countenance, which had 
risen to “very fair” at that promise of a tete-a-tete, liad fallen a 
little; “nor must you imagine that it is in reality Cissie’s. She 
onl}'- wishes to give an old woman whom she loves, and who has 
few joys left her in this world, a great pleasure.” 

“ Heaven forbid that I should hinder it, dear madam,” said 
Arthur, earnestly. He felt what he said, for the old lady inter- 
ested him immensely. 

“You have a kind heart, sir,” said Lady Layton, gently, 
“which makes the task that has been committed to me the more 
welcome. Though you have known Cissie long, I have known 
her longer; and though it may seem impossible to you, I do not 
love her less. I have for many years lived more in the past than 
in the present, and quite alone. It pleased God to take my darling 
boy from me, and since then she has been as my own child. Hav- 
ing no mother, it was natural that she should come to me for ad- 
vice and assistance in her little troubles; but at last there came a 
great trouble — you, sir.” 

Here Lady Layton shook a jewelled finger at him, and Arthur 
hung his head; not so low, however, but that he could see Cissie 
smiling benignly on him over her godmother’s chair, which kept 
his spirits up amazingly. 


THE FAIRY GODMOTHER. 


269 


“I was horrified to find that a young man without a penny had 
dared to lift his eyes to my godchild. What was still worse, this 
gentleman did not seem inclined to bestir himself to earn a penny.” 

Arthur made a movement of dissent. 

“That is what I gathered, sir, from my informant, notwith- 
standing, you may be sure, that she made every excuse for you. 
You were ready to break stones in the road to win her, in Eng- 
land, it seemed, only stone-breaking was not a remunerative call- 
ing; but you hesitated to accept £200 a year in India with the 
same object.” 

“ It was not the going to India, madam, but the fear of losing 
her while I was away,” put in the young man, plaintively. 

“ That is what you protested, of course, but 1 was not inclined 
to believe you. ‘ This is, in my opinion, an idle young fellow, 
Cissie,’ I said, ‘and totally unworthy of you;’ on which Cissie 
burst into tears. ‘It is better to cry now,’ said I, ‘than to cry 
when things are past mending.’ So you see, sir, I was set dead 
against you, and did what I could to your disadvantage.” 

“At first” observed Cissie, very softly, like an explanatory 
chorus which has lost its voice. 

“Be quiet, miss,” remarked the old lady, reprovingly. “ Well, 
sir, my advice to Cissie was not only that she should not engage 
herself to you — which, indeed, she was far too wise to do — but, 
unless you accepted that appointment in India of your own free- 
will, that she should give you up. She would not express her 
own opinion on the matter that night at the Inventions one way 
or the other, you remember, but left it to your own decision, and 
still you hesitated, sir. Then suddenly (catching sight of me in 
my wheeled chair) she thought of my unhappy story, which, if 
read aright, though she could not plight her faith to you in so 
many words, it struck her might indirectly assure you of it.” 

“I am thankful to say it did so,” murmured the young fellow. 

“My experience has been a bitter one. Heaven knows; but 
since it has taught you wisdom it has not been without good h'uit. 
God bless you both.” 

Arthur once more bowed his head, this time without venturing 
to look at Cissie; he felt somehow that some supreme moment as 
regarded his future was at hand; but when he looked up again 
Lady Layton had disappeared. 

“ You will not see her again, Arthur,” said Cissie, gravely, in 
answer to his look of amazement. “It was only for my s^ike that 
my dear godniamma consented to see you at all, for she sees no 
one. If I had not been certain that she would have liked you I 
would not have risked it.” 

“ Risked it?” 

“That was not perhaps the right word to use,” said Cissie, 
blushing, “for in any case I had obtained her consent to our 
betrothal.” 

Here there was what is called in music “an interval,” and it 
was very harmoniously spent. 


270 


A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. 


“ What are those papers she has left on the table, Cissie?” 

“Papers? I did not know there were more than one. This is 
your appointment from Judge Manners, a very old friend of Lady 
Layton’s husband.” 

“Judge Manners! But it was not in his gift.” 

“Not the Indian one. But this is a revising barristership, and 
she knows some ‘solors.,’ as you call them, and promises to get 
you w'ork from them besides.” 

“ What a fairy godmother my darling has!” 

“You may well say that,” exclaimed Cissie, her pretty face lit 
up with glad surprise. “ See what she has given to me, Arthur.” 

It was a deed making over to her the sum of £500 a year till 
the donor’s death, “ after which my dear godchild will be other- 
wise,” it said, “suitably provided for.” 

“And did you know nothing of this?” 

“Not of this; only of the other.” 

“ I wonder why she never told you until now?” 

“ I think I know, my darling. She had not made up her mind 
until she had seen you whether you were a fit and proper person 
to be intrusted with such a treasure as myself. If she had had 
her doubts, she w’^ould have withheld her munificence until you 
had passed through some period of probation,- but as it is — ” 

“We are to be married to-morrow,” interrupted Arthur, rapt- 
urously. 

“ How can you be so foolish?” 

“But that is what she means, Cissie. I don’t say that she has 
fixed that date for the ceremony, but she wishes it to happen as 
soon as possible. To delay it would be an act of mutiny and 
ingratitude of which I cannot believe you capable, and which 
would be only -worthy of Mr. Bates.” 

Moved by these and other arguments, Cissie consented to name 
the day, and it was not a remote one. 

The only drawback to it in the young couple’s eyes when it 
arrived was that it lacked the presence of Lady Layton, who, as 
they both honestly thought, w^as very inadequately “ represented” 
by a magnificent diamond necklace. 

“ Who was that stout old gentleman, my darling,” inquired the 
bridegroom, as they drove away for their honey-moon, “ who 
handed you your godmother’s present? I heard him say some- 
thing about being her dearest friend.” 

“That is the sole survivor of whom she spoke the other day. 
When the East India Company was dissolved, some of its naval 
officers took rank in the Royal Navy, and he is one of them — 
Admiral Conolly, C.B.” 

“What, Master Lewis Conolly?” 

“Yes, the same, though not the same. He is the only person 
alive in England save poor dear godmamma who remembers 
Prince Tarilam.” 


THE END. 


BEN-HUU: A TALE OF THE CHRIST 


By LeWo WallacEo New Edition, pp. 652. 16mo. 

Clotl], $1 50. 

Anything so startling, new, and distinctive as the leading feature of this 
romance does not often appear in works of fiction. . . . Some of Mr. Wal- 
lace’s writing is remarkable for its pathetic eloquence. The scenes de- 
scribed in the New Testament are rewritten with the power and skill of 
an accomplished master of style. — iV. Y. Times. 

Its real basis is a description of the life of the Jews and Romans at the 
beginning of the Christian era, and this is both forcible and brilliant. . . . 
We are carried through a surprising variety of scenes; we witness a sea- 
fight, a chariot-race, the internal economy of a Roman galley, domestic in- " 
tcriors at Antioch, at Jerusalem, and among the tribes of the desert; pal- 
aces, prisons, the haunts of dissipated Roman youth, the houses of pious 
families of Israel. There is plenty of exciting incident; everything is 
animated, vivid, and glowing. — W. Y. Tribune. 

From the opening of the volume to the very close the reader’s interest 
will be kept at the highest pitch, and the novel will be pronounced by all 
one of the greatest novels of the day. — Boston Post. 

It is full of poetic beauty, as though born of an Eastern sage, and there 
is sufficient of Oriental customs, geography, nomenclature, etc., to greatly 
strengthen the semblance. — Boston Commonwealth. 

“Ben-Hur” is interesting, and its characterization is fine and strong. 
Meanwhile it evinces careful study of the period in which the scene is laid, 
and will help those who read it with reasonable attention to realize the 
nature and conditions of Hebrew life in Jerusalem and Roman life at 
Antioch at the time of our Saviour’s advent. — Examiner, N. Y. 

It is really Scripture history of Christ’s time clothed gracefully and 
delicately in the flowing and loose drapery of modern fiction. . . . Few late 
works of fiction excel it in genuine ability and interest. — N. Y. Graphic. 

One of the most remarkable and delightful books. It is as real and 
warm as life itself, and as attractive as the grandest and most heroic 
chapters of history. — Indianapolis Journal. 

The book is one of unquestionable power, and will be read with un- 
wonted interest by many readers who are weary of the conventional novel 
and romance. — Boston Journal. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

jJQ* The, above work sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States 
* or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


THEIR PILGRIMAGE. 


By Charles Dudley Warner. Richly Illustrated by C. S. 
Reinhart, pp. viii., 364. 8vo, Half Leather, $2 00. 


Aside from the delicious story — its wonderful portraitures of character 
and its dramatic development — the book is precious to all who know any- 
thing about the great American watering-places, for it contains incompar- 
able descriptions of those famous resorts and tlieir frequenters. Even 
without the aid of Mr. Reinhart’s brilliant drawings, Mr. Warner conjures 
up word-pictures of Cape May, Newport, Saratoga, Lake George, Richfield 
Springs, Niagara, the White Jklountains, and all the rest, which strike the 
eye like photographs, so clear is every outline. But Mr. Reinhart’s de- 
signs fit into the text so closely that we could not bear to part with a 
single one of them. “Their Pilgrimage” is destined, for an indefinite 
succession of summers, to be a ruling favorite with all visitors of the 
mountains, the beaches, and the spas which are so marvellously reflected 
in its pages. — JV. Y. Journal of Commerce. 

The author touches the canvas here and there with lines of color that 
fix and identify American character. Herein is the real charm for those 
who like it best, and for this one may anticipate that it will be one of the 
prominent books of the time. Of the fancy and humor of Mr. Warnei’, 
which in witchery of their play and power are quite independent of this 
or that subject, there is nothing to add. But acknowledgment is due Mr. 
Reinhart for nearly eighty finely conceived drawings, and to the publishers 
for the substantial and rich letter-press and covers . — Boston Globe. 

No more entertaining travelling companions for a tour of pleasure re- 
sorts could be wished for than those who in Mr. Warner’s pages chat and 
laugh, and skim the cream of all the enjoyment to be found from Mount 
Washington to the Sulphur Springs. . . . His pen-pictures of the charac- 
ters typical of each resort, of the manner of life followed at each, of the 
humor and absurdities peculiar to Saratoga, or Newport, or Bar Harbor, 
as the case may be, are as good-natured as they are clever. The satire, 
when there is any, is of the mildest, and the general tone is that of one 
glad to look on the brightest side of the cheerful, pleasure-seeking world 
with which he mingles. ... In Mr. Reinhart the author has an assistant 
who has done with his pencil almost exactly what Mr. Warner has accom- 
plished with his pen. His drawings are spirited, catch with wonderful 
success the tone and costume of each place visited, and abound in good- 
natured fun. — Christian Union., N. Y. 

Mr. Reinhart’s spirited and realistic illustrations are very attractive, and 
contribute to make an unusually handsome book. We have already com- 
mented upon the earlier chapters of the text; and the happy blending of 
travel and fiction which we looked forward to with confidence did, in fact, 
distinguish this story among the serials of the year. — N, Y. Evening Post. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

The above work sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States 
or Canada, on receipt of the price. 



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